


Lits de Mort

by lecterisms



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Blood, Cannibalism, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Violence, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Prostitution, Will Knows, all that good stuff, bad men being bad men, bad psychology, character death (not mains), fancy pretentious food, it's nice to find someone to share your hobbies with, mentions of past physical abuse, mentions of past sexual abuse, more tags to come, rentboy!will, so much blood, this is hannigram after all, will is 21 and a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-11-19 12:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11313819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecterisms/pseuds/lecterisms
Summary: By day, Will Graham is a twenty-one year old student at the FBI Academy, attempting and failing miserably at flying under the radar thanks to being a bit of a child prodigy in his chosen field.Night, however, is a completely different story.





	1. Pressures

 

Taking a deep, steadying breath and slowly letting it out, he eyes the nameplate on the door he stands in front of.

The only outward sign of the anxiety he feels inside that he allows himself to show is a moment of fidgeting with his glasses, pushing them up further on the bridge of his nose to the exact place that he knows from experience will provide him a much-needed barrier against eye contact. Raising a fist he wills not to shake, he knocks softly on the door, before stepping away and staring at his boots, gnawing nervously on his lower lip.

“Door’s open,” a deep voice calls from within the office, and not for the first time since he crept down the hallway he seriously considers bolting; knowing that whatever has brought him to where he now stands can’t _possibly_ be good. Steeling himself, he reaches for the knob, the metal cold against his palm as he pushes open the door and steps inside.

“Ah,” says the man at the desk, closing his laptop and smiling at the young man cautiously tiptoeing into his office; a smile that just reaches his dark eyes as adds, “Will Graham. Please, come in.”

Will struggles not to roll his eyes, both at the statement of the obvious—he’s well aware of his own name, thank you very much—as well as the invitation to enter a room he’s already standing in; not much of a fan of wasted words. Nonetheless, he stands a little straighter, arms folded neatly behind his back, if only because he respects the man in front of him, or at least the reputation that proceeds him. He averts his eyes once again, studying his toes as if they are the most interesting thing on the planet, before hearing himself reply, “Agent Crawford.”

He glances up through the frame of his glasses to find the older man still smiling at him, a thoughtful look on his face as he gestures towards a chair in front of his large desk; a seat that Will doesn't take, remaining instead by the door. “I guess you're wondering why I asked to see you,” Crawford says with a slight tilt to his head.

Another urge to roll his eyes; of course Will wonders why the fucking  _head_ of the behavioral sciences division himself has asked to see him personally. “Not really,” Will answers, not bothering to check his tone, since he assumes the damage has already been done. Briefly, he meets the older man's eyes directly, barely hiding a wince as his brain is suddenly flooded with information he hadn’t meant to acquire. He mentally kicks himself as Crawford’s smile drops at his flippant answer, and he quickly catalogs the information he’s inadvertently gathered, before adding in what he hopes is a more deferential tone, “I thought maybe I was in trouble, but now I’m not so sure.”

This brings another small smile to Agent Crawford’s face, his head tilting further as if studying a true curiosity before him. “That _thing_ you do,” he replies suggestively, causing Will to visibly bristle. The discomfort he causes the young man makes his smile widen imperceptibly, and he once again gestures to the chair in front of him before instructing, “Have a seat.”

“I’m fine standing, sir,” Will answers with a touch of annoyance in his tone, wishing he was literally anywhere else than where he currently is; dark eyes on him, scrutinizing, attempting to deconstruct the ironclad layers he has used as a shield since he was first conscious to the undeniable fact that he was... _different_.

Crawford settles back into his seat, shrugging one broad shoulder as he replies, “Suit yourself.” A moment of silence passes, before he asks in a way Will can see right through; knowing the man hardly cares about his answer, “How are your studies going, Will?”

“I highly doubt you called me in here for a progress report you have the authority to obtain yourself, sir, so I assume that question is rhetorical,” Will answers, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at a place on the wall a safe distance to the right of the senior agent’s eyes.

Crawford doesn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t,” he agrees, “And luckily I didn’t ask you to meet with me so that I could bask in your stellar personality.” He gives Will a wry smile that the younger man refuses to look at directly. He sighs, folding his hands on his closed laptop, studying the man—barely more than a child in his eyes, young enough to be his son—in silence momentarily before he speaks again. “I've been watching you, Graham,” he states, smirking slightly as he continues, “Since you arrived. Since you _applied_ , as a matter of fact.”

Will looks away, uncomfortable at the thought of being watched, of being the focus of attention; something he has tried his best to avoid throughout his life since childhood, something that nearly stopped him from applying to the FBI Academy in the first place.

Obviously not expecting an answer, Crawford clears his throat and continues. “We bent the rules for you,” he comments, another statement of the obvious Will could do without. “Barely twenty-one years old,” Crawford goes on, “Two years shy of the youngest applicants we have ever accepted. But, one could argue, far more qualified than our average agent-in-training.”

“One could,” Will echoes, mentally cursing his sergeant at the Louisiana police department that hired him a few days past his eighteenth birthday for the thousandth time since he left to continue his education.

“Graduated high school at sixteen, the police academy at eighteen, and awarded a commendation for bravery before your twentieth birthday,” Crawford continues, and Will’s eyes flicker up with a droll look, wondering if he missed the announcement of ‘ _Will Graham, this is your life!_ ’ upon entering the office. “And somehow,” he adds, “Managing to obtain both a bachelor’s degree in criminology and letters of recommendation from _several_ of your superiors insisting we allow you enroll early. Impressive resume, Mr. Graham. Very impressive, indeed.”

Will only just resists the urge to run a hand down his face, uncomfortable as his list of accomplishments is read aloud to him. “I hope I will be an asset to the academy, sir,” he says instead of voicing his discomfort, licking his lips as he moves his eyes to stare down at his boots once more.

“You already are,” Crawford replies, and Will is acutely aware that the older man truly means it, “Your instructors have passed on to me several of the papers you've written since you enrolled. Impressive.”

“Thanks,” Will replies awkwardly, deciding he's heard the word 'impressive' enough for one lifetime thank-you-very-much; scuffing the toe of his boot against the ugly berber carpet below his feet. If the man sitting before him was anyone else, he might consider an excuse to leave, but he knows better than to try to pull one over on Agent Crawford—referred to in the halls of the Academy as 'the guru' for his astuteness.

“Anyway,” Crawford says with a sigh, flattening both his large hands out on the desktop, “Let's get down to business, shall we?” Will barely keeps himself from replying, a sarcastic _please and thank you_ lying in wait just on the tip of his tongue. The older man nods once, before reaching into a desk drawer for a file that Will quickly ascertains is his own, opening it and idly flipping through as he speaks. “You’ve heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?” he asks, seeming—feigning, and badly—distracted by what he finds inside.

“Yes,” Will says slowly, glancing up from the floor to add, “As you already know. I’m sure one of the papers you were handed was the one I wrote on him.”

Crawford levels the younger man with a look that anchors him to the spot. “If we’re going to get along, Graham, you’re going to have to stop correcting me.”

_Stop needing to be corrected_ , Will thinks, but stays the words with great effort. A beat passes before he asks as congenially as he’s capable of, “And why exactly would we need to get along, Agent Crawford?”

The dread building deep in his belly is confirmed when the older man replies, “Because I’m about to ask you to join our taskforce to catch The Ripper, Mr. Graham. Somewhat...off the record, for obvious reasons.”

“Because of my age?” Will asks, although he’s sure he already knows the answer.

“Because of that _thing_ you do,” Crawford answers, “Because it has become quite obvious to me, as well as your professors, that you don’t think like everyone else.”

“Because I can think like  _them_ ,” Will mumbles under his breath, feeling slightly ill. He had hoped to somehow not draw any extra attention to himself here; hoping to simply blend in amongst the students—the best and the brightest. He had drawn attention to himself all his life, and he _hated_ it, used it only as a particular means to an end.

“And I’m hoping that you can think like _him_ ,” Crawford replies, eyeing the young man before him.

Will searches his mind for some sort of excuse, comes up with nothing, and licks his lips before murmuring lamely, “I’ve barely gotten started here, Agent Crawford. I'm nowhere near becoming an agent...I probably won’t even pass my psychological assessment anyway—”

“I am well aware that you are not yet an agent, Graham,” the director replies firmly, cutting off Will’s nearly desperate pleas. “But we need the brightest minds on this,” he adds, his tone softening ever so slightly, “And you appear to be the very brightest.” His words are meant to stroke Will’s ego, and would, were he anyone else. Instead, Wills discomfort only grows, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in to get him the hell out of there, and soon.

“It’s settled then,” Crawford announces with a nod of his head, oblivious to the fact that Will is currently trying to will himself into becoming one with the dingy carpet below his feet. “Come by after your classes tomorrow,” he tells him, “I’ll introduce you to the team.”

“Yay,” Will replies quietly, lightyears beyond unenthusiastic, before hurrying to add respectfully, “Yes, sir.”

Crawford nods again, pleased with himself. “I trust that you are efficient enough with multitasking to not let this get in the way of your studies, based on your academic history, Graham?”

Will bites his lower lip, shakes his head slowly from side to side.

“Good,” Agent Crawford replies, nodding his head towards the door, “You are dismissed.”

Will nods, turns to go, and pauses in the doorway; certain that as a normal human being he's expected to show his gratitude for the agreement he already wishes he could somehow get out of. “Sir?” he says quietly, his voice sounding young and unsure, “Thank you. For the...opportunity.”

Crawford nods again, before tilting his head to add sternly, “Go back to your dorm, son. Get some rest, tomorrow will be a long day for you.”

Will nods in kind, before letting himself from the room, huffing out a deep breath he had been holding for the entirety of the conversation as soon as the door is shut behind him.

_Tomorrow will be a long day for you_ , he repeats to himself with a slight smirk that he ducks his head to hide as he wanders down the hallway, the senior agent’s words ringing in his ears as he makes no attempt to head towards his dormitory as he was instructed; instead following the quickest route out of the building and to the nearest parking lot.

Before he can worry about what will—apparently—be a long day tomorrow, he muses to himself, he has a long night ahead of him.

x

A word of warning before we get going, friends: this is hannigram, after all, so there's going to be blood and murder and bad psychology and all sorts of terrible shit that comes along with our precious boys. I'm not a doctor, a psychologist, an empath, a fancy pretentious asshole with more money than sense, a profiler with a super questionable moral compass, a cannibal or a serial killer...nor do I identify as a queer male, for that matter. Liberties might be taken here and there to make up for this.

Plan is to update on Wednesdays. Enjoy :)


	2. Sleepless Nights and City Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will’s out and about. As it happens, so is a weird old doctor.

Night has fallen, and after a damn near two hour cab ride that cost him a small fortune, Will finds himself standing on the street corner of a not-so-nice part of Baltimore. He tugs the collar of his moth-eaten jacket higher to cover his neck, shivering against the cold blast of air that assaults him and the other boys loitering in the area—the smell of an oncoming winter storm on the air. 

Wishing he had worn something warmer besides a worn pair of jeans, long since ripped at the knees, and an ill fitting, oversized and threadbare sweater that once belonged to his father, Will shivers with the cold, but nonetheless stays put, his eyes scanning the street. It is, for the most part, unfamiliar territory; having only spent a few nights where he stands. His more familiar stomping grounds in the past have been south of this particular corner: D.C., Annapolis, or further south still to Richmond. He finds himself surprised by the arctic air that blows in off the Inner Harbor a few streets away, causing him to frown once more as he allows the too-large sweater to hang down over his cold fingertips, bringing them little warmth to speak of.  

A far cry from the sweltering heat of the bayous and boatyards where he spent most of his childhood, if you could call his early years a childhood at all. 

He shoves those memories aside, pressing his cold hands into the pockets of his borderline too-tight jeans, barely finding any room for his fingers thanks to the switchblade hidden in his right pocket. He turns his attention once more onto his surroundings; trying to become as familiar with them as the ones he has left behind. Other darkened, dank street corners in other cities. Street corners he chose to move on from before people began to attribute the peculiar happenings in the area to his presence.  

Here, he was anonymous once more. An attractive, he supposes objectively, youthful face amongst a slew of others just like him. Young, still holding on to an air of innocence that he lost all claim to long ago. Boys trying to make a living the only way they can, selling themselves off to whoever will have them for an hour, for a night. 

Disgust turns in Will’s stomach, but doesn’t flicker onto his expression, watching a car slow as it passes the corner. A window rolls down as it rolls to a stop in front of a gaggle of boys—children, really—further up the dingy street. He hears the sounds of exchanged words, before one of the boys breaks away from his comrades and slides into the passenger seat of the expensive, shining car, that quickly takes off down the road. 

Will wonders if he’ll see the boy again, as he makes a mental note of the jumble of letters and numbers on the license tag. 

He hopes, next time, to be picked up by the same man who lies in wait behind tinted windows, despite—and because of—his obvious penchant for the underage. 

Will doesn’t do this to make a living. No, not anymore, anyway; his starting salary at the Academy is more than enough for him to live on—enough to fund his travels, to rent the small apartment outside of Quantico where he goes when being shut in the small dormitory room with the roommate he hardly knows becomes too much for his, admittedly, fragile mental state to bear. It even allows him to give a decent-sized, recurring monthly donation to the local animal shelter, although he wishes he had enough time between work and more work to rescue a dog of his own. 

In truth, this isn’t work for him at all. It’s _play_. 

As the taillights of the car with the young, fresh-faced pretty boy begins to fade into the distance, another sound fills Will’s ears; the purring of a well-tuned engine coming to life. He turns, squinting against the headlights that nearly blinds him as a car—sleek and dark and European—peels away from the curb further down the street. 

For a moment, Will entertains the idea of being picked up by the car’s—a Bentley, he realizes belatedly, _holy shit—_ occupant; wondering if tonight he might risk taking a trophy from someone who so absurdly flashes his wealth. Perhaps he would even let this one fuck him, remembering what he’s gotten himself into at the Academy and wondering if perhaps that would let him blow off some steam before the proverbial shit hits the fan for him. 

He’s _hoping_ that the car slows before him. Adrenaline is already beginning to seep into his veins, his imagination already coming up with potential endings for the night, all painted dark and gleaming with the righteous gush of arterial spray, but it all quickly deflates as the car picks up speed, moving past him. 

He tells himself he’s not disappointed—because really, _what the fuck—_ as he watches the car go; not stopping for any of the other boys on the corner he occupies. It almost looks as if the car is following the other vehicle, the one with the small, pale boy inside, but Will shakes his head, sure that it’s just his imagination. 

Sure enough, a few moments later, the car turns down an unassuming side street to continue on its way. Will lets out a breath he didn’t mean to hold, sauntering over to the pole of a long-since burnt out streetlight as he lets some of those particular fantasies go for the evening, replacing them instead with what he’s _actually_ here for. He leans against the frigid metal, hoping to make himself more visible to those shopping for what he’s pretending to be, losing himself in his thoughts for a moment until a familiar sound rumbles up before him, breaking himself from a reverie of blood and death and justice. 

He blinks at the sight of the dark gleam of metal before him; the owner of the Bentley obviously having circled the block before returning to where he stands. He can’t see inside through the tinted windows as the car idles on the curb a few feet away, but that hardly matters. Pushing himself from his recline against the streetlight, catlike in his movements as he slips effortlessly into the mindset that needs to be adopted for the night. He comes closer, and takes a perverse pleasure in bending down and bracing his hands against the pristine paint on the car door just below the window, knowing that he’s marring the surface with his prints despite noting he’ll need to clean them off later when he's through.  

A mechanical whir, and the window rolls down. “You may get in,” comes a deep voice from within, and Will blinks—at the arrogance of the invitation, as if the man inside is doing him a favor instead of the other way around, but more so in surprise at the heavy accent, the rumbling tone, and most of all the sharp gaze leveled at him from the driver’s seat. 

Will wishes he had his glasses to hide behind, since he can’t seem to look away. 

The eye contact is positively brutal, almost painful for Will to bear, but his eyes remain on the much darker ones within as wets his lips, before he opens the door and slips silently inside. 

For someone who avoids _looking_ , he finds it oddly easy to allow his eyes to catalog the details of the much older man across the center console from him. He is deeply unusual-looking, Will realizes: his features would be more fitting on a marble sculpture in a museum somewhere, adorned in an immaculate suit whose pattern is equally as ostentatious as the car that idles around them. Nonetheless, he is irrefutably handsome, nothing like the disgusting johns—smelling of sweat and desperation, a hunger in their eyes for sex and violence that they can only obtain by paying for it—that Will normally faces on a night like this one. His eyes are positively striking, and Will absently licks his lips as his gaze drops—not entirely intentionally—to study the shape of the man’s mouth.  

Vaguely he becomes aware that those lips are moving, and Will finally manages to tear his eyes away from the man’s face. He swallows, blinks, and then asks weakly, “What?” 

“I _said_ ,” the man responds, clearly unused to repeating himself, his accent clipped when he questions the boy again, “You are new here. What is your name?” 

“Does it matter?” Will replies curtly, earning another unamused glance from the man. He gets the distinct feeling that he’s about to be thrown from the vehicle, watching the man’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as his eyes narrow, before he manages to paste a somewhat apologetic look on his face and answers the question with a simple, “Will.” 

Surprisingly enough, his answer—and his downright boring name—causes the man to look thoughtful. “A _William_ , then, I assume?” he asks lightly, and Will struggles not to roll his eyes, sure that the only person in the world that has called him by his given name was his father when he was in deep shit—usually for skipping school—and that, so long ago now that it no longer feels like a real memory to him. 

Rather than voice any of this, his discomfort, or the strange way that the man’s thick accent curling around his name makes him nearly shiver, he slowly nods his head to the affirmative. The man smirks at the wide-eyed, childish look on the boy’s face, before he raises a fair brow and prods further, “Your age, _William?”_  

Will’s eyes dart to the dark ones across from him momentarily before settling more comfortably on the man’s left ear. “Old enough,” he murmurs carefully, and he feels oddly chastised by the look he receives in return, and without further prodding he finds himself telling the truth. “Twenty-one,” he replies, daring to raise a brow in return as he adds disdainfully with a flicker of blue eyes towards the boys watching enviously from the street corner, “Too old for you?” 

To his surprise, the older man smirks, before shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. “Quite young, actually, William,” he muses, and this time Will can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck are you doing _here_?” he asks incredulously, flipping a careless gesture towards the corner he was just plucked from. 

Just as suddenly as the vehicle began to move, it stops so abruptly that Will is forced to brace himself on the dashboard; thinking for a moment if the look he receives in return is in response to his now slightly sweaty palm pressing against the smooth leather. 

“The mouth on you,” the man intones quietly, not an ounce of amusement in his dark gaze as it settles on the mouth in question for a long, _too_ long, moment. “I do not care for such crass language in my presence,” he informs, raising his chin ever so slightly as he adds, “Have I therefore made a mistake in my choosing your company this evening, Will?” 

He has the disturbing feeling of disappointing his father, something Will chooses to file away to deconstruct later because again, _what the fuck_. “No,” he says softly, settling back into the heated seat and reaching for the seatbelt, as if being strapped in would do him any good if the older man should decide to toss him from the car and choose one of the twisted cherubs still trying to gain the attention from the procurer in the fancy, shiny vehicle only a few yards away. 

The thought shouldn't matter to Will, but inexplicably, it does.  

The man nods his head minutely, and the engine purrs around them as he begins to drive again. “You may rephrase your question,” he replies, as if he’s doing Will a fucking—oops, _freaking—_ favor by allowing him to do so. 

Will studies the mostly untied laces of his boots as he ponders, and then _rephrases his question_ in a small voice. “I only meant,” he says carefully, not wanting to try his luck, “That there are...places other than this corner to find a date, if your tastes are not of the barely-legal variety.” Or the _not legal in most states variety_ , he adds silently to himself with a grimace. 

Out of the corner of his eye, since he most certainly doesn’t want to start with the eye contact again, Will picks up on the slightest air of amusement. “A _date_ ,” the man repeats, and despite himself Will almost smirks at the way the word twists with the man’s unusual accent as if he's trying it out for the first time; an accent he can’t quite place no matter how hard he tries. 

His amusement sours quickly, however, as he remembers what brings him to the nicest car he’s ever been in, navigating easily through the streets through Baltimore’s heavy traffic. He forces himself to relax, limbs stretching out more comfortably against the leather seats, dragging a hand slowly through his hair as he purrs out, “So, do you shop around here often, Mister...?” 

The man smiles again, although it’s a tight-lipped thing, his mind placing the slight southern drawl in the pretty young thing’s voice. “ _Doctor_ ,” he corrects smugly, casting a gaze towards Will as he adds casually, “That’s enough for now, don’t you think?” It hardly matters, he tells himself, if the boy knows his name; considering he’s already imagining what extravagant dish he could conjure up to best elevate the taste of this little lamb’s most impolite tongue, but for some reason, on a whim, he decides to withhold anything more. 

Will struggles not to make a face at the pretentious title that perfectly matches everything about the man. God, he hates these assholes. He opens his mouth to say something grating, but the good _doctor_ continues on, “To answer your question, Will...I suppose yes, in a manner of speaking.” 

“Always for boys less than half your age?” Will asks lightly, flicking his gaze in the man’s direction with a smirk, enjoying the critical look he gets in return: either for the prodding or the jab at the—what must be nearing a thirty year—age difference between the two of them. 

The man eyes him for a moment longer, contemplating how to answer, before turning his eyes back to the busy street. “Not exactly,” he hedges, keeping his cards held close to his chest. “Tell me, Will,” he begins instead, “What brings you to where I found you tonight?” 

Will suddenly feels as though he’s under the microscope, a feeling he’s had before when forced to see psychiatrists in his youth. “Money,” he answers, a lie. Most of the time he doesn’t let it go far enough to actually collect. 

The doctor makes a thoughtful noise, and Will is left with the distinct feeling that the older man doesn’t believe him. “As good a reason as any,” he replies, offhand. 

In an attempt to bolster his claim, Will lazily turns his head towards the driver’s seat, although he focuses his gaze on a safe spot in the graying hair above the man’s ear, again. “Five hundred for the night,” he intones with a suggestive stretch of his long limbs, smirking as he adds in a practiced sultry tone, “Five hundred for _whatever you want.”_  

The thoughtful noise again, and Will looks quickly away when the man turns his head slightly to glance in his direction. “Whatever I want,” he echoes with a touch of humor, and he licks his lips before turning back towards the road; wondering, not for the first time in the last few minutes, what exactly it is he is doing. “I...” he begins, pausing for a moment at the rare sensation of needing to collect his thoughts before choosing to continue honestly—even if the boy doesn’t realize _just_ how honest he’s being, “I had planned to get a bite to eat tonight. Would you care to join me?” At this, Will’s head swivels towards him once more, a surprised and incredulous look on his handsome face, the way his lips part as he stares at him only adding to their attractive shape. “My treat, of course,” he adds with a small smile as he adjusts his hand on the wheel, “And you shall be compensated accordingly for your time.” 

He enjoys the surprise confusion in the boy’s expression, enjoys even more his own curiosity at where this series of uncharacteristic decisions will lead him. He takes a deep breath, cataloging the sweet scent of young, fresh meat filling his passenger seat, the clean blood that pumps through his veins, no trace of sweat or smoke or anything else that usually plagues his sensitive nose when the usual suspects are drug into his vehicle. 

“Never had someone pay me to eat dinner,” the boy replies thoughtfully as he studies his fingers, roundabout acceptance of the offer made. 

“And I have certainly never paid one for such company,” he says, earning a raised eyebrow from the young prostitute, clearly not buying the truth, much to his amusement.  

The rest of the ride is spent in silence, until he navigates into the parking lot of restaurant that boasts French cuisine; well known to him, being one of the few that meets his exacting standards. Will’s eyes are on the other vehicles in the lot, no doubt noticing that his own gleaming vehicle seems much less out of place in the opulent company of Jaguars, Mercedes, and the odd Lexus parked around them. 

He allows himself one more deep breath, enjoying the scent of life beside him, caged as it is in the confines of the car, before asking lightly, “Shall we?” 

Will smiles in return, but the man sees right through it, sees it for the false, brittle thing that it is. It is evident to him that the boy is somewhat disappointed, and he wonders at it for a moment, further piquing his curiosity, until young Will replies with bravado that is forced easily, another thought that the older man chooses to file away to pull out later and examine. 

“Sure,” Will replies, his eyes shifting to the private, unmarked entrance to the restaurant where he has somehow found himself, adding with an internal huff, “It’s your dime, after all, _Doctor._ ” 

x


	3. Romance is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have dinner, and Will surprises his new acquaintance. 
> 
> (I'm not doing so good at only posting on wednesdays. Oops.)

He can feel the younger man’s eyes on his back as he leads the way into the private entrance—one that only Baltimore’s most elite are aware of, not that this boy knows any better—of the restaurant, greeted warmly in French by the chef herself who happily shakes his hand. He smirks as the chef looks the young man in his company over warily, taking in his bedraggled clothes and his shock of untamed curls, before she gestures them both inside, safe from the cold and into the warmth of the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, cataloging all of the scents that engulf him; fine ingredients he can pick out and name separately, the drop of truffle oil spilled on the cuff of the chef’s jacket, and below it all the scent of this _Will_ who shuffles uneasily along behind him. 

Will watches as the man converses lowly with the chef before he strides through the kitchen as if he owns the place—which, he concedes, he _might_ —and out into the dining room, where he gestures towards an empty booth tucked in the back for Will to have a seat. He eyes the older man warily before doing as he’s told, sliding into the seat and watching as his company for the evening does the same.  

He watches with sharp eyes as Will glances around, before seeming to sink in on himself as if he wishes to disappear. He catches the doctor staring at him, and Will swallows before he opens his mouth to speak. “I’ve never been in a place like this before,” he murmurs honestly, dropping his gaze when it becomes too much for him to hold, his pale cheeks flushing in his discomfort.  

He considers Will for a long moment, before his lips pull into a thin smirk. “I’m delighted I can afford you the opportunity, Will,” he says, tasting the young man’s name on his tongue. “I am very careful with what I put in my body,” he goes on, the smirk remaining as if slightly amused by a joke, “Therefore I most often prepare my own meals, but it is nice to treat oneself once in a while, is it not?” 

Will stares at him for a moment, although the doctor notes that he doesn’t exactly meet his eyes, while Will ponders this pretentious asshole he’s saddled himself with for the night. Only the inevitable _end_ to the night could possibly make this whole charade worthwhile. “I wouldn’t know,” he hedges, wondering what the older man would make of the oft-frozen garbage he—as a typical college student, in many ways— _puts into his body_. 

His companion looks Will over, taking in his pale skin and slight build, the somewhat-scrawny limbs a clinging reminder of his adolescence. The dark circles under the boy’s eyes do not escape his notice, either, and before he can stop himself he hears the words slipping from his lips, “You should take better care of yourself, William.” 

The boy snorts, and finds a genuine smile curving his lips, just showing the beginnings of neat white teeth. “So I can live to reach your ripe old age, _Doctor_?” he asks with a playful tilt of his head, causing him to stare out from behind the mop of chocolate curls that haphazardly sprawls across his brow. 

Obviously taken aback, Will watches as the dark eyes across from him narrow ever so slightly. He clearly intends to say something, but Will is saved from further pretentious bullshit by a waiter dressed in sleek black that appears at their tableside. 

“Des hors-d'œuvre, monsieurs?” the waiter announces with a kind smile, although he doesn’t wait for an answer, instead sitting down a plate in front of each of them. “Salade Niçoise Au Thon Frais,” he names smoothly, taking a bottle of wine and two glasses from another server that appears at his elbow, presenting the label to the doctor. His companion nods his head in approval with an indulgent smile for his host—one that causes Will to take further notice of this man’s somewhat strange brand of beauty, and the waiter announces the name, as well, as he pours them each a half of a glass, the name going far above Will’s head. 

“Quite the delightful pairing,” the doctor murmurs as he looks at Will, not entirely referring to the wine, still smirking but this time with the beginnings of crinkles around his eyes that don’t escape Will’s notice. The younger man nods as if he knows a damn thing about wine pairings, which he doesn’t, before glancing down to study his plate. 

For someone used to frozen dinners and fast food, with little to no fine dining experience, the appetizer is nothing less than beautiful. The pink of the seared tuna, the bright red of the tiny tomatoes and the dark black of olives, all artfully arranged on a pinch of salad greens with a streak of colorful sauce on the plate. “Looks good,” Will says lamely, wincing at how completely lost he must sound to the refined man before him. 

But the man does not skip a beat, simply watching Will with rapt attention as he nods his head. “Indeed,” he murmurs, following the movement of Will’s hands as he draws out his fork and scoops up a small bite, staring openly as the younger man brings the fork to his lips. Sensing an opportunity to keep up the act, Will lets the tines of the fork rest momentarily on his lower lip, before smirking slightly as he chews and then swallows. 

“Delicious,” he hums after a moment, still chewing carefully, and only then does the older man nod once more and pick up his own fork. 

For a few moments they eat in silence, drinking the wine provided, earning Will a sharp look when he downs the whole glass in one gulp instead of taking the time to enjoy it. Will muses that the man should be glad he didn’t order a cheep beer to down instead, following up with a belch. 

He’s still smirking at the thought of how much that would stress the refined man before him out, when the man himself finally breaks their—oddly comfortable—silence. 

“Tell me, William,” he starts as he pours him another glass, and Will only just manages to not roll his eyes, “We both know what the other does for a living. What do you do with the rest of your time?” 

Despite himself, Will feels the barest crooked grin curl his lips, nodding his head in thanks to the waiter when he appears again to whisk away their plates. 

“You mean when I’m _not_ fucking old men with a penchant for young boys for cash?” he asks, his startling gray-blue eyes dancing over the rim of his glass when he takes a slow drink. 

The man doesn’t answer for a moment, although there is no change to his facial features as he regards Will and then reprimands quietly, “Language, William. And yes, that is what I was referring to, in so many words.” 

Will huffs a quiet laugh, slouching back in his seat and pulling his timeworn sweater down over his fingers, fiddling with a stray thread that he dares to pull on. He considers how to answer the older man’s question, licks his lips, and then answers as honestly as he cares to, “School...mostly.” 

“Ah,” says the older man, clearly pleased to hear this, “A student. And what, may I ask, is your area of study?” 

“Law,” he lies through his teeth, almost _too_ quickly; knowing not to try his usual line involving premedical school with an actual doctor.  

“Law,” repeats the man, again giving Will the distinct impression that he can see right through him. “Perhaps, one day, you will be prosecuting the very men who seek your company.” 

Will smirks, says nothing as the waiter once more comes in a whirlwind, leaving them with a plate artfully arranged with small mushrooms and—what Will realizes with a shock and struggles not to turn his nose up at—escargot. He watches as a fresh glass of wine is poured for them both in a flurry, a deep red this time as opposed to the sparkling white, and waits until the waiter twirls away before he answers, giving the older man a smirk as he purrs, “ _Perhaps_.” 

Inside he is laughing at his own joke, at this—obviously intelligent—man’s stupidity; unaware of what he’s walked into, just what Will _does_. He’s used to easily fooling people about his true nature, but applauds his own ability to trick _this_ particular john into believing that he’s no more than a mild-mannered student, making ends meet the best way he knows how. 

He blinks, and realizes that he’s been staring off into space, and that the man has been studying him the entire time with keen, dark eyes. Will clears his throat and then takes up his fork to spear one of the little mushrooms, glancing away shyly when the man speaks again. “How long have you been doing this, William?” he asks, and Will immediately registers that there is no pity in his tone. 

Because of this, he feels little need to lie. “I turned my first trick when I was sixteen,” he answers honestly, reading the man’s face before he continues softly, “Ever since then, off and on.” 

“And what do your parents think you do?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side, ignoring his food and wine as he adds, “For a living?” 

The food currently being chewed in Will’s mouth sours, and he forces himself to swallow before pushing the plate away. “My parents don’t think _anything_ about me,” he answers, a little curtly, pausing to take another large swallow from his wine before feeling compelled to explain for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, “They’re...not around. Don’t know that they’d care if they were.” 

The older man nods his head, folding his hands in front of him neatly. “I see nothing wrong with doing what one must in order to survive,” he replies. 

Will smirks, although it’s a cruel twist of his lips that holds no humor. “I guess you don’t,” he answers, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, “You’re the one that picked me up to fuck, after all.” 

The man says nothing, but Will can’t miss the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes, although his lips do not move, not even to correct his foul language once more. Suddenly, the waiter appears once more, interrupting long enough to place a small desert menu in each of their hands. The older man waves him off, handing the menu back with polite disinterest, but no matter how fancy the food was Will finds he is still hungry after only eating a few bites of mushrooms and rabbit food. 

He feels the older man and the waiter both watching him as he studies the menu, before he opens his mouth to speak. “Petit gâteau au chocolat et glace à la vanille,” he says softly, and he doesn’t miss the way both the man he’s with and the waiter—the former much more subtly than the latter—raise their brows in surprise at the way the words roll off his tongue, even with their slight drawl. In the end, the waiter flits away once more, and Will turns his eyes _almost_ back to the man, focusing on one sharp cheekbone rather than meet his heavy gaze. 

“Do you know what you just ordered?” he asks, and this time Will’s smirk is genuine. 

“Cake and ice cream,” he replies, deliberately stripping the fancy dessert down to its bare bones, just to see if he can get a rise out of the absurdly composed doctor. 

The only reaction he gets is a small smile, raising his glass of wine to take a sip, enjoying it, and then swallowing. “There is more to you than meets the eye, William,” he husks, the timbre of his voice catching Will off guard, unintentionally making eye contact before diverting his gaze to where his fingers toy anxiously with his fork. “How many of those little boys on that frigid corner are fluent in French, do you think?” he asks, tilting his head again in an unnatural way that sets Will’s teeth on edge. He pointedly says nothing, and the man presses further, “I seem to have the luck of the draw. Where did you learn French, good Will?” 

Will’s fingers still against his fork, glancing up at the man sharply. “Personal information isn’t included in my particular list of services,” he says dryly, before adding, “Neither are having a dinner and a _chat_.” 

“And yet, here we are,” the man muses with a small smile, his eyes boring holes into Will, not sparing a glance for their waiter as he drops by his tiny chocolate cake, with a scoop of freshly made ice cream at its side. He waits until the waiter leaves once more, before relaxing back in his seat, somehow managing to remain perfectly poised as he does so. “I shall pay extra for these... _services_ ,” he informs Will, his oddly colored dark eyes sparkling with barely concealed mirth as Will glances up once more, “I find good conversation to be rare and therefore priceless in this world.” 

“I don’t need your handouts,” Will replies with a frown, his brows remaining pinched together in the middle as he scoops a large bite of his pretentious cake and ice cream into his mouth, if only to annoy the prim man before him. 

“Naturally,” the man replies in his deep voice, not looking away from Will’s face. “Quid pro quo, then,” he offers with another irritating smirk. 

Another mouthful of desert, this time speaking around it. “No thanks,” he replies, smirking with his mouth still full, “I don’t find you that interesting.” 

“You will,” the man hums, only looking amused and somewhat surprised. A pause, and then he adds, “God forbid we should become _friendly_.” 

Will snorts, and this time allows himself to roll his eyes, almost sighing as the tension from holding back that particular gesture since the shiny Bentley pulled up beside him is released. “Is this how you make _friends_ , Doctor?” he asks, finishing off his desert before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and adding impudently, “Probably says something about you.” 

“Probably does,” the older man replies, still amused—shocked, inwardly, at this strange course his evening has taken. He shifts to remove his wallet—brown leather as ostentatious as everything else about him, Will observes—handing a sleek black credit card off to the waiter. “Did you enjoy your food, William?” he asks, seemingly interested in his answer. 

“It was alright,” Will replies, although his tone is teasing. 

The man smiles, this time, showing off sharp teeth. “I am positively ecstatic to hear you say so,” he answers, matching Will’s sarcasm. 

The waiter returns, folding his hands behind his back and waiting politely as the doctor signs the credit card slip with a ridiculous flourish, handing it back before turning to Will. “Shall we?” he asks lightly, gesturing for the younger man to leave the booth first. 

When Will smiles, it’s all teeth as well, feeling the first stirrings of excitement in his blood. 

Feigning obedience, he slips from the booth, and waits to fall into step behind the man as they exit the way they came in. Will’s mind is calculating the whole time; noting the breadth of the man’s shoulders beneath his tailored suit jacket and the lithe way he walks—strong, perhaps strong enough to require an element of surprise. He’s taken down larger, stronger men despite his own smallish stature—but none perhaps as intelligent as this one. 

Will’s own intelligence is his greatest weapon, and he would be remiss not to consider that it might be this particular predator’s as well. 

He remains silent as he follows him to the car, drinking in the man’s profile when he turns a certain way to dig his keys out of his jacket pocket; wondering to himself how far he should let things go tonight since—despite his earlier objections—he’ll be damned if he _doesn’t_ find the man interesting. Why, he wonders, would someone like him prefer finding company in such a way? It would almost be a shame to kill him…almost but not quite.  

He checks himself once he slides into the passenger seat once more, the car’s engine purring to life and peeling off into the streets from whence they came, a reminder of why he’s here in the first place. Not to get fucked by some bizarre old doctor with a weird accent and even stranger eyes, that’s for sure. The man is just another predator that needs to be taken care of, he reminds himself.  

And if he doesn’t, who will? 

It’s an excuse, of course, and a brittle one at that: only part of the reason for Will’s extra-curricular activities. The others he chooses not to dwell on, ignoring the excitement unfurling within him as the time draws closer. 

He’s lost in his thoughts by the time he realizes the car has pulled to a stop, and as he blinks away the images swathed in red flashing before his eyes, he sees a familiar scene before him. An unlit corner, boys too young to be out on their own staring at the car with interest. Confused, he turns his eyes to the man in the driver’s seat, just in time to see him pull a thick wad of cash out of his wallet, Will’s eyes widening as he gently takes his wrist and presses the money against his palm. 

“Go home, William, if you would,” the man says softly, and his hand is large and warm against Will’s skin as he delicately closes Will’s fingers around the money he’s given him, “I truly do appreciate your company this evening, even if you didn't find _me_ interesting.” 

“I...you don’t want to...” Will stutters, shaking his head, having not expected this turn of events. 

The man smiles, before unlocking the doors to free Will from the confines of the car. “Not quite my style, so to speak,” he murmurs with a rueful gleam in his eyes, almost black in the near-darkness. “Goodnight, dear Will,” he says, before he reaches across Will’s lap to open the door for him, filling Will’s senses with the light scent of what must be a very expensive cologne, their eye contact suddenly unbearable to Will although he’s unable to break it as he feels his body moving to obey on it’s own accord, too shocked to say a word. 

He’s still standing on the curb, his mouth hanging slightly open, as the Bentley drives away; passing the group of boys who are staring at Will with open jealousy that he doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t move until the car turns a corner and disappears. 

Only then does he drop his gaze to the money in his hand, unable to name the feeling gnawing at him at what he finds there. 

Not five hundred dollars, the agreed upon price. 

 _Thousands_. 

x


	4. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Will is introduced to team sassy science, and becomes better acquainted with the Chesapeake Ripper.

Will raises a hand to cover his mouth, trying to suffocate the yawn and hide it from Jack Crawford, who he’s following down the hall, having just led him out of his office and further into the bowels of the BAU. He fails at this, if the unamused look Crawford gives him over his broad shoulder is any indication, and Will manages to force a small smile and a shrug—just your average overworked college student, nothing to see here, honest. 

“Long night?” the man asks, and unbidden Will’s mind brings up images of dark eyes with just the slightest hint of amusement in the crinkles that surround them, of the more than five thousand dollars he was paid to have fucking  _dinner_ , the distinct lack of bloodshed that ended the night, much to his dismay. 

“You could say that,” Will hedges, his eyes falling to stare down at his shoes as they move over the gleaming tile in the hallway, loose boot laces flopping around with every step. 

Jack stops so suddenly Will nearly barrels right into him, blinking his eyes before managing to glance up into the agent’s unpleasant expression. “I need you  _all_  here, Graham, or you’re going to be no use to me,” he grumbles, peering down at the boy who seems all the younger for the way he averts his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, “You being of no use to me isn’t going to be good for your career. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” Will mumbles, shuffling his feet and biting his lower lip, desperately wishing he had blended in as he dreamed he would have...to have not stuck out like a sore thumb with words like  _different_  and  _special_  whispered behind his back. The story of his fucking  _life_. 

Jack sighs, before grasping the younger man’s shoulder. “I know this is a lot,” he tells him, trying to adopt a sympathetic tone, and almost—but not quite—managing, “But we need you in there, son. We need all the help we can get to catch this guy.” 

Will nods his head again, trying not to flinch away from the huge paw on his shoulder, squeezing just a little too tightly, or the older man calling him ‘son’ again—he has plenty of issues, sure, but daddy issues are  _not_  one of them. Luckily, it doesn’t last much longer, although as Jack none-too-gently shoves Will in front of him to walk down the hall he realizes he’s only traded one discomfort for another, much preferring following as opposed to leading the way. 

Soon enough, Jack reaches past him to open a door, leading him into a room whose sterile, chemical smell immediately assaults him. He blinks against the bright lights overhead, and quickly looks away when he notices the occupants of the room have ceased their discussion to look curiously his way. 

“Will, this is everybody,” Jack says, his gruff voice seeming to boom in the unnatural silence of the laboratory, “Everybody, this is Will Graham, the... _student_  I told you about.” 

The first to break away from the group is a woman with long, dark hair and a warm, teasing smile, approaching Will with her hand outstretched. “Oh yeah, the child prodigy,” she says, her smile still in place as Will manages to shake her hand without looking fully in her direction, his cheeks warming as a slight grimace pulls at his lips. “I’m Beverly,” she informs him, before turning her head to look over her shoulder, “And that’s Price and Zeller.” She leans in closer, giving Will a conspiratorial smile, before adding, “It hardly matters which one is which. You’ll never see one without the other.” 

The only other occupant of the room, a man not dressed in a lab coat but instead a suit, raises his chin proudly before declaring, “Doctor Fredrick Chilton, psychological consultant. I’ve heard  _so_  much about you, Mister Graham.” 

Will glances warily in the guy’s direction, taking in his pinched expression and the obvious disdain he feels radiating from him. “And what, exactly, have you heard?” he hears himself asking, and winces internally at the way his words grate. 

Chilton cocks his head slightly to the side, smiles, although there’s nothing the least bit genuine about. “Well, for starters,” he drawls, “I’ve heard that you didn’t pass the psychological examination your first try, so this education you’re receiving might be all for naught.” 

“Detects instability,” Beverly chimes in, poking Will in the ribs with her elbow in a way that simultaneously causes him to feel like he might have an ally in this room while making him feel distinctly uncomfortable from the physical contact. His discomfort only grows when she grins and leans in to ask him, “You unstable, kid?” 

“Extremely,” Will hears himself answer, and Beverly laughs as if he’s told a hilarious joke—he was unfortunately telling the truth. 

“This is quite peculiar, is it not?” Chilton asks, his question directed at Agent Crawford, “To allow someone who isn’t an agent to consult on a case such as this one.” 

“Did I miss something?” interjects the dark haired man—either Price or Zeller, apparently—clearly no more of a fan of the psychiatrist than Will is already, “When did  _you_  become an agent, Fredrick?” 

To Will’s amusement, the doctor bristles, opening his mouth to argue, but Jack’s voice rings loudly in the room, calling their meeting to order. “Gentleman,” he booms, causing everyone present to flinch, his eyes shifting to Beverly, “And lady. Let’s get to work, shall we?” 

One of the men—Jimmy Price, Will ascertains from the FBI badge clipped to the pocket of his lab coat as he comes closer with a stack of files in his hands—jumps quickly to obey Jack’s orders. “I’ve pulled every file for every homicide that fits the profile,” he tells Agent Crawford, stepping around Will with a friendly smile to a shining metal table against the wall, beginning to spread the files out neatly. “ _And_  some missing persons who might be a hit, as well,” he adds, flipping each of the files open, and Will tries to hide his cringe as a flood of thoughts that aren’t his own begin to seep from the faces of corpses, torn asunder and displayed artfully, that are captured in the photographs. 

The grimace on his face doesn’t escape any of the agent’s notice, although Will is sure that they see a green recruit grossed out by gore, having no true idea that each and every one of the dead are speaking to him, telling their stories. He swallows, gets control of his facial features, reaches up to touch his glasses nervously before asking Jack, “You already have a profile, then. Why do you need me?” 

“I want  _your_  profile, Graham,” Crawford answers, and Will glances up at him before looking away, careful not to focus on any of the dead faces that stare up at him with blank eyes and horrific expressions, as the agent adds, “Tell me what you see.” 

Jack steps up to stand right beside him, shoulder to shoulder if it wasn’t for the man towering over him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees him wave the other agents and the pissy psychiatrist back to give him room to think. He huffs out a sigh, hoping that it conveys the honest appreciation he feels; not needing the others’ emotions interfering with those of the dead. 

Will closes his eyes for a moment, counting his breaths as he allows the killer of these people to rise up inside of him, slowly taking the place of what makes him  _him_ , before opening them slowly once more; feeling a bone-deep fear of what he will see. Sure enough, the corpses are no longer two-dimensional, printed on the shining cardstock of the photographs. Instead they are displayed before him in living, vibrant color, the smell of blood coppery and thick in the air. Each one is more mutilated than the last, but arranged in ways he assures himself he doesn’t find visually appealing. His breathing picks up ever so slightly as his eyes run over each one, before stopping to study one left of center; which seems, for some reason, more  _interesting_. 

“Almost all men,” he murmurs to himself, almost thoughtfully despite his fear, “All gruesomely mutilated... _exposed_.” He breathes the word out, stepping closer to reach a hand up, a hand that suddenly holds a sharp, curved knife; able to feel the cool weight of it against his palm. He watches his hand move, slicing a long, red line down the man’s chest, before tossing the knife aside to delve his hands into the wound. 

“I pull the ribs back,” he whispers as he does exactly that, “The sounds of them cracking one by one are music to my ears.” He hears it— _snap, snap, snap—_ until he’s opened the man’s chest cavity, looking up with a smirk curving his lips to watch the man’s eyes bulge nearly out of his head, choked sounds of pain spilling from his lips. “I always take a trophy,” he muses, still smirking, “But I don’t open you up for that.” The man’s chest rattles in his final breaths as Will reaches inside, pulling hard enough to snap tendons and blood vessels, to tear away cartilage and connective tissue, exposing the vividly bright colored organs beneath. He runs his fingers through the warm viscera, feeling the last fleeting flutters of the heart therein, a pleased smile on his face as he watches the life draining from the body; a life that  _he_ controlled the ending of, orchestrated to his liking. 

“I open you up to  _expose_  you,” Will says softly, almost tenderly stroking the organs beneath his fingertips, blood soaking into his skin up to his wrists—no, that’s not right, he never leaves any evidence, his crime scenes nothing short of pristine. Abruptly, he’s wearing gloves. “I want  _everyone_  to see you as what you are,” he tells the corpse, watching as blood drips from his mouth and from the wound he created. “You’ve done something to raise my ire. What was it? What have you done?” he whispers to the man, a feeling of righteousness bubbling up within him, a hunger to shed more blood, to lay waste and make corpses of people like him who  _deserve_ it. “You’re nothing more than swine to me,” he hisses, running his fingers once more over the slick organs he exposed with thoughtful consideration, his voice not sounding like his own when he whispers, “Had to open you up to find any part of you that’s  _decent..._ ” 

“He didn’t take any organs,” he hears a voice saying, musical, far away, “ _Internal_ organs anyway.” 

“What?” Will whispers as he hears chuckling, as if a joke was told; blinking his eyes when the corpses before him begin to return back to their respective photographs, the scene before him dematerializing.  

A huff from by his shoulder. “I thought I was clear when I told you all to shut the  _fuck_  up,” a deep voice says beside him. 

Will finally forces his gaze away from the pictures of dead bodies strewn across the table, looking up momentarily at Jack in irritation—wondering what  _else_  he told them—before looking over his shoulder at Beverly, who is trying her best to look chastised but fails miserably at hiding her amusement. “What did you say?” he repeats, his voice still sounding strange to his own ears. 

Beverly smirks. “The Ripper usually takes trophies,” she says, and Will gives her a look that clearly communicates a resounding  _duh_. “Livers, lungs, hearts...even the occasional intestines,” she goes on, unnecessarily, “There’s no rhyme nor reason to it.” 

“But he didn’t this time,” Will murmurs, half his mind still back with the corpse, elbow-deep in gore. 

“Not exactly,” Zeller—confirmed by his badge—chimes in, and when Will raises a brow, the man steps in closer to gesture at the picture Will clutches in his hand, until that moment not realizing he was holding onto it as if it were a lifeline. He keeps his distance, as if wary of Will, before adding with a crooked smirk, “I guess testicles are  _technically_  an organ, right, guys?” 

Beverly and Price hum their agreement, although the room as a whole cringes when Chilton clears his throat. “A classic case of misandry,” he declares haughtily. 

Will makes a face. “No,” he says simply, not bothering to explain something he’s absolutely sure of, and enjoying the way the psychiatrist’s eyes widen in shock, and then narrow in loathing. 

“ _No_?” the older man repeats, his eyebrows arched high, “No? Who is the psychologist here, Mister Graham?” 

Will smirks, but it’s a cruel thing, his mind still too wrapped up in the Ripper’s. “I was just wondering the same thing,” he shoots back, causing the man to fluster more. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Price says with something closer to a giggle than a laugh, looking between his two cohorts with a grin, “I  _like_  him. Can we keep him, Jack?” 

Chilton is still sputtering as Will turns back to the table, finally laying the photograph down with all the rest. “Misandry would imply that the Ripper thinks of this man as a  _person_ ,” he says, shaking his head and furrowing his brow. “He doesn’t,” he says, his voice softening but his words matter-of-fact, “He thinks he’s a  _pig_.” 

“ _Long_  pig,” Zeller snorts, setting off another series of hushed giggling that ceases immediately with a stern look from Jack. 

The words are still ringing in Will’s ears as he studies the picture. “He wants them  _exposed_ ,” he whispers, forming his hands into fists to hide the way they begin to shake, feeling as though he’s on the cusp of something  _important_ , yet can’t quite connect the dots. “I feel his...disgust,” he says softly, his voice sounding strangled as the Ripper’s thoughts overcome his own once more, tightening around his throat, making it hard to breathe. “He’s not...angry,” he manages to say, “He’s just...mildly irritated. By them, or because of something they’ve done.” 

Something in his brain suddenly clicks. 

“Do any of them have records?” he asks the room at large. 

There’s a shuffling of paper behind him, someone double-checking files, before Price speaks up. “A few of them have priors,” he says, before adding, “Your castrated friend there, for example, has a few for solicitation.” 

Something bubbles up inside Will, if he had to name it, he might would say it was  _possessiveness_. 

“And the others?” he asks tightly, still staring down at the remains of this john, one that could have been  _his_. 

“Um,” Beverly hums, coming to stand beside him and flipping through the various files on the table, “Holy shit. Solicitation. Solicitation. Solicitation?” She glances over her shoulder at Price and Zeller as she accuses, “How did you guys miss  _this_?” 

“ _Us_?” the men cry in unison, but Will tunes them out as the three of them erupt into a lighthearted argument over who is responsible for overlooking the connection between several of the Ripper victims. 

“Not killing prostitutes,” Will murmurs, mostly to himself over the din, “But killing their  _tricks_.” 

“A  _pattern_ ,” Price says with a grin, halting their ongoing argument with a cheerful, “Hooray.” 

Will doesn’t feel cheerful. He feels  _infringed_   _upon_. 

He sets his jaw, before turning back to the room. An irritated glance is cast at Chilton, who as a psychological consultant, should have been the one to make his next statement—if he was worth a shit, which he isn’t. “A repeat offender might be forced into counseling by the court,” he says. 

“Hyper sexual disorder,” the man says, matter-of-fact, with a nod of his head. 

Will grimaces. “No,” he corrects, “It would be more than that. Narcissistic personality disorder.” He pauses, then gives Chilton a pointed look as he adds, “A need...an obsession, for  _power_.”  

Chilton once again makes an outraged face, one that Will is quickly learning to enjoy causing him to make, but he once again speaks over him, cutting him off before he can defend himself. “We need to speak to area psychologists,” he says, turning his head to look up at Jack, “See if they know anyone who might fit the profile.” 

This time, Chilton does manage to get a word in edgewise. “Certainly you know that would be an infringement on doctor-patient confidentiality,” he says, as if he finds the idea repellant—Will sees right through the act and rolls his eyes. 

Jack does not look amused at Will’s suggestion either, however. “We can’t do that, Will,” he says sharply, and Will tilts his head thoughtfully, analyzing his statement. 

Beverly grins. “ _We_  can’t,” she agrees, turning her eyes towards Will suggestively. 

Will gives a petulant sigh. “Better for a trainee to ask for forgiveness than a FBI agent to ask for permission?” he asks, reaching up to fitfully run his fingers through his hair, feeling on edge. 

“In my experience,” Crawford replies, smiling down at the boy. 

Will takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. “Well, then,” he says, staring down at his feet, “I hope you’ll excuse me if I skip the rest of my classes today.” 

Price smiles. “Oh, you’re excused,” he tells Will, earning a sharp look from Jack. “What?” he asks the senior agent, still grinning, “I’m happy, okay? We have a pattern!” 

The agents all erupt once more, and Will shakes his head, walking out and closing the door to the lab on a chorus of ‘ _a pattern!’_ and what sounds distinctly like high fives all around. 

He takes a steadying breath that does nothing to rid him of the presence of the Ripper, now that he’s in his head, and turns to head in the direction of the Academy’s library. As he walks, he wonders not for the first—or last—time why he couldn’t just have stayed down south fixing boat motors. He could have bought himself a little house by now, surrounded himself with the company of dogs who wouldn’t ask anything of him but food and the occasional scratch behind the ears. An existence free of blood and gore in both his professional and private life, quiet nights at home with a glass of bourbon and a book instead of roaming the streets—something he knows now that he’s not doing alone. 

He sighs as he opens the door to the library. 

_If only_. 

x 


	5. This Is How I Disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will follows his leads into the dark.

 

Will shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trapped in the lobby of yet another psychiatrist’s office, this time with a middle-aged receptionist who keeps staring at him. As he so often does, he feels distinctly out of place in the opulently appointed waiting room, despite his attempt to look at least somewhat professional—having managed to dig out a halfway decent pair of khakis, his hunter green plaid shirt with the top two buttons left undone and no tie, because really...there’s only so much he can deal with at once. To this effect, he still has on his favorite pair of boots; thick soled, laces never quite reaching fully-tied status.  

The frayed plastic ends of the laces are currently tapping on the wooden floor of the waiting room as he jiggles his leg in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. It’s the only sound in the room but for his breathing that seems incredibly loud, and the  _tap tap tap_  of the receptionist’s keyboard. 

It’s the thirteenth Baltimore psychiatric office he’s visited today, only managing to work halfway down his expansive list, already having decided that he would skip his classes tomorrow and follow up on the rest after this one, beyond ready to call it a day. He’s all but empty-handed, having heard ‘doctor-patient confidentiality’ about a thousand times before leaving for the next office with nothing. He sighs, running a hand down his face, earning the attention of the well-dressed woman at the reception desk once more. 

She smiles at him, condescendingly, but not unkindly. Will can plainly feel her curiosity over his visit. “Doctor Lecter should be done with his current patient any time now, dear,” she tells him in a sweet, patient tone that strikes Will as practiced, although perhaps not disingenuous. “As soon as he is,” she informs him for what must be the third time in the hour he’s been waiting, “I’ll let him know you’re here. What was your name again?” 

Another sigh. “Will Graham,” he tells her, watching as she takes up a pen and writes down his name. 

A few more moments tick by, quite literally, since the sound of the grandfather clock across the waiting area is loudly marking every second longer he’s forced to wait. He briefly entertains himself with thoughts of hunting tonight; getting out there and doing something after suffering through an entire day of smalltalk and eye contact for fucking  _nothing_. He still itches for action after having his plans derailed two nights before, entertaining himself with the memories of past hunts and the sickly-sweet smell of spilled blood rather than allow himself to recall  _that_  particular night. 

A slight movement from the receptionist catches his eye, a minute tilt of her head as if listening to something Will can’t hear, and he shifts uncomfortably again—although this time for a different reason entirely. “Ah,” she says with a smile, “I think he's just excused his patient. Give me just a moment, would you? I’m quite sure he’ll have no problem with working you in.” 

Will nods and smiles tightly, hoping against hope that the woman didn’t notice the flush warming his cheeks thanks to the visions his mind supplied for him in bright, living color. He runs a hand through his hair, hoping to calm the curls that have long since become unruly again despite his best efforts to tame them that morning, and sits up a little straighter as she stands, watching her as she moves towards the office door, her heels clicking against the polished wooden floor. 

She raises a fist and knocks, and must hear some sort form of agreement from inside that Will can’t make out. She pastes on a smile, before opening the door. “Doctor Lecter,” she chirps as she peers inside the room that’s just out of Will’s line of sight, “There’s a young man here to see you, if you have time. Mister Graham, from the FBI.” There’s a pause, where she looks back to Will, before adding swiftly, “Not an agent, just a trainee.” 

Will hears the sound of a chair scraping back, before footfalls come closer to the door. “Never  _just_  a trainee, Susan,” a familiar, deep, accented voice comes from within the office, and Will freezes, his eyes growing wide as the doctor— _the_  doctor—steps into the doorway. Those dark eyes fall on Will, and there’s just the barest flicker of surprise before his features smooth out into indifference once more, adding with a cordial smile, “An agent in training. Good evening, Mister Graham.” 

“Doctor Lecter,” Will responds, his voice barely more than a breathy whisper, his eyes still wide in his head as he returns the gaze that’s been mulling in the back of his mind for two days—one he was sure he would never see again, mostly because if he saw that Bentley again, he had assured himself he would run in the other direction. 

He glances down at the scrawled list wrinkling between his fingers. Hannibal. Of course this guy has a name like Hannibal,  _christ_.  

The doctor seems curious and amused as he smiles again, gesturing into his office. “Please, come in,” he instructs, before turning his attention to his receptionist. “I appreciate you filling in today, Susan,” he tells her with a deferential nod of his head, “You have been most helpful. I know it is far past our agreed upon hour...” 

“It’s okay,” the older woman interrupts, and Will doesn’t miss the flash of irritation on the doctor’s face. 

“You are dismissed,” he informs her, somewhat tightly now, “Have a lovely evening.” 

The woman blinks, before nodding her head and turning back to gather her things. Hannibal watches her for a moment, before his attention is suddenly focused on Will once more. Without a word, he turns, walking back into his office and standing beside the door, holding onto the knob as he watches Will wrench himself up from his chair and practically trips over his own feet as he ducks into the office, flinching when the door shuts behind him. 

In the middle of the room, Will steels himself before raising his chin and turning around to look the doctor in the eye. The man says nothing, a thoughtful—perhaps calculating—look on his face as he ambles slowly and collectedly towards his desk, turning back to rest against it. Will expects him to say something—accuse him of something—but he doesn’t, merely watching as Will fidgets in the middle of the room, his eyes fluttering around to take it in. From the loft lined with books to the furniture strategically placed facing each other, the pieces of carefully selected fine art,  _anywhere_  but the heavy wooden desk with the man staring at him with placid interest, his hair slicked back and wearing an even more ridiculous suit than when he inadvertently met him—powder blue plaid with a golden-toned shirt and tie beneath, honestly,  _what the fuck_. 

Despite his desperate prayers to suddenly disappear, or wake up from this awful dream, neither happens and Will is forced to come up with something to say. His gaze falls to his boots, that don’t match the rest of his outfit at all, before he clears his throat and speaks to his toes, “I’m not a law student.” 

Hannibal hums his agreement. “You are also not twenty-one,” he points out, “The FBI Academy does not accept students until twenty-three.” 

Will sighs, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “They made an exception, in my case,” he hedges, glancing up at the doctor before looking down. 

Hannibal finds he is quite enjoying the boy’s discomfort. “And what case would that be, Will Graham?” he asks, thin lips pressed into a smirk. 

“Long story,” Will replies, dropping his hand back down to his side before adding weakly, “That’s not what I’m here for.” 

Hannibal makes a soft noise, non-committal. “I see,” he replies, pausing for a moment before he adds, “Did the money that exchanged hands two nights past not cover such  _services_ , William?” 

At this, Will looks up sharply, irritated by the older man’s smirk, and the thinly veiled insinuation that he has sought the man out for a repeat. “That’s...” he starts, wetting his lips as he tries to remain calm, repeating with as much gusto as he can pull together, “That is  _not_  what I’m here for, Doctor  _Lecter_.” 

“I should think not,” Hannibal agrees, watching as Will begins to wander around the room, his steps fitful, obviously uncomfortable. He stops in front of an iron statue, his fingers shaking slightly as he reaches out to touch the tines of the depicted stag’s antlers, flinching when Hannibal speaks up again. “And what could possibly bring an agent in training from the FBI to my door, Will?” he asks, genuinely interested in the answer, despite knowing that depending on what that answer is there may be bloodshed in his office tonight. 

Will doesn’t answer right away, instead continuing his circuit around the room, examining each piece of art—a strange array, he notes, but somehow all pulling together effortlessly into a theme that he can’t quite place. He stops in front of the ladder that leads up to the loft above, turning to lean against it, before letting his eyes fall on the doctor once more. 

“I’ve been doing some research,” he states, choosing half-lies rather than the truth. He focuses his eyes on the doctor’s stupid pocket square, and wets his lips. “There’s a case,” he starts, carefully, “One that I believe the killer may have been seen by a psychologist. Perhaps for sex addiction.” 

Amused, Hannibal tilts his head. “And what case is this?” he questions lightly, his accent thickening his words as he asks, “Do your superiors think you might catch this killer, considering your...area of expertise?” 

“I’m not a fucking  _sex addict_ ,” Will snaps, bristling. 

“Language, please,” Hannibal replies, taking a few steps closer while the young man is looking away. “You are a rent boy, William,” he states, earning another glare as the boy’s gaze flits to his once more, his eyes narrowing further in incriminates as he continues, “A prostitute. A  _whore_.” 

Will isn’t as bothered by the accusations as he should be, considering they’re quite true. “I suppose you’ve conveniently forgotten how we came to make each others acquaintance,” he replies with a coy tilt of his head, looking up at the doctor as he comes closer through his lashes and a spill of dark curls; morphing before Hannibal’s very eyes to play the part. 

“I have not,” Hannibal replies, his voice low as he comes to stand right before the boy, watching as he leans back against the ladder with a suggestive, sinuous bend of his small, lithe body. “As I told you before,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to catalog the curve of the younger man’s lips, the beginnings of stubble shadowing his youthful features, no longer shaved smooth as he was the night they met, “That was not a situation I normally find myself in.” 

Will smirks, slow and leisurely, his blue eyes alarmingly bright as close as they are; wide as they stare up at Hannibal—yet, he notices, somehow managing to not quite meet his gaze. “But find yourself in that situation, you did,” Will notes, wetting his lips, and this time his eyes lock with Hannibal’s for a long moment before he adds, “And you didn’t fuck me, although I do believe you wanted to. And I went home, just like you asked.” He smirks as the man’s eyes flash, before adding softly, “I’m no psychiatrist,  _Doctor_ , but that doesn’t sound like a sex addict to me.” 

Hannibal’s eyes linger on the lovely curve of the boy’s lips for a moment, distantly aware that absently wets his own. “Perhaps we should explore this further,” he intones, his eyes seeming almost red in the office’s low light when he glances up from Will’s mouth to meet glittering blue. A small smile, as he adds pointedly, “In  _therapy_ , of course.” 

Will grins. “I’m not the only one here who needs therapy,” he says, daring to step closer so that they very nearly touch before he slips away with a sly smirk from between the ladder and the equally unyielding man who had managed to trap him. 

A distinct warmth flows away from within him as he puts distance between them once more. Will chooses to ignore it, instead lapping the room a second time. “I was asked to consult on a case,” he informs the older man, stopping across the room from him to turn and face him.  

“An agent in training, asked to consult on an investigation,” Hannibal muses, returning to his desk to lean against it once more, and it strikes Will suddenly just how much the casualness is forced. “How peculiar,” he hums, his gaze sharp as he takes the younger man in with sharp eyes, “Whatever did you do to catch Jack Crawford’s eye, Will?” 

Will starts, his eyes widening. “You know Agent Crawford?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. 

“I do, indeed,” Hannibal replies easily, rising to stroll across the room to a small table. Absently—a gesture that seems out of place on a man who doesn’t seem to do anything without reason—the doctor fiddles with a pencil lying next to several sheets of drawing paper, and something else; something shiny that Will can’t quite make out from across the room. He moves them, lines them up perfectly parallel again. “Merely by association. A colleague is also a consultant of his,” he adds smoothly, watching as Will pulls a face, “On the Chesapeake Ripper case, I believe.” 

“Chilton?” he asks, scrunching up his nose, and Hannibal allows the barest smirk before he nods his assent. “Friend of yours?” Will adds, disdain dripping from his tone. 

This time, Hannibal’s smile grows on its own accord. “Hardly,” he answers, quite enjoying the sound of Will’s answering laugh, short and abrupt as it is. Calculatedly, he next asks, “Tell me more about your case, William.” 

Will looks at him for a moment, sighs, and then begins to wander around the room idly once more. “I noticed a pattern,” he says, lost in his own thoughts as he stops at a bookshelf, glancing over the titles therein. He knows he shouldn’t go into details, just as well as he knows he shouldn’t even be there at all. A pause, and he decides to push ahead. “Some of the Ripper’s victims—not all of them, but enough—have a record.” He gives Hannibal a pointed look, as he adds, “For  _solicitation_.” 

Will watches as the doctor shifts—a minute show of discomfort, perhaps—although his expression remains nothing short of placid. “I see,” he replies, and his eyes show a smile that doesn’t reflect on his handsome face as he asks teasingly, “Did you come to warn me, then? To keep me  _safe_ , William?” 

Will blinks slowly, before shaking his head. “I didn’t even know who you were, remember?” he answers, his eyebrows knitting together, “I didn’t even know you were a psychiatrist. I assumed you were a medical doctor.” 

“I am,” Hannibal replies with a smug expression. Will nearly rolls his eyes, but then stops abruptly, his eyebrows knitting further as he studies the man across the room from him. 

A medical doctor, he thinks. Just like the Ripper is assumed to be. 

“I...” Will begins, still staring at him, wetting his lips before he manages to force out, “I thought, perhaps, some of these victims may have been forced to seek counseling by the courts.” 

Hannibal slowly begins to move back to stand in front of his desk. “An astute observation,” he comments, his voice low, “What a clever boy you are, William.” 

There is a distinct note in his tone that Will picks up on, his empathy reading it loud and clear. 

A  _threat_. 

Will clears his throat, his mind struggling to keep up with all the thoughts that are suddenly flooding through it. There’s a conclusion he’s barreling towards at a high rate of speed, but yet it remains just out of his reach. All of this is a coincidence, it would seem; unless, perhaps, it’s no coincidence at all. 

Some baser, primal part of him whispers  _predator_  in his ear. Rationally he knows he has nothing to base this on, nothing besides instinct. 

_Like recognizes like_. 

He struggles to keep his thoughts off his face, but hazards a glance towards the door. Doctor Lecter, without a doubt, notices. “I, uh...” he starts, licking his lips, “I made a list of psychiatrists in the area. Hoping that someone might remember something...something about these men.” 

A long silence passes. Will looks down at his shoes, wishes for a moment they were tied. 

“I cannot recall any such patients readily,” Hannibal answers, and with great effort, Will raises his gaze to look the man in the eye. “Luckily, I do take extensive notes during my sessions,” he says, his head tilting to the side in an eerie movement. “I’ll be glad to go upstairs and see what I have,” he offers, his voice light—but underneath his tone, his blasé countenance, Will’s sharp senses pick up on the slightest hint of what he can only describe as regret. He’s still teetering on the edge of a realization, can feel his fingers just brushing against it, unable to wrap his hand round and bring it to eyelevel to give it a proper study. There’s a tightness in his throat, and his heartbeat picks up, his blood singing in his veins with instincts that he can’t quite place. 

He nods his head. Watches as the doctor nods his own, before turning and crossing the room, the soles of his shining dress shoes making a sharp sound with every step. For his age, Will notes, he climbs the ladder to the loft with surprising agility, and disappears from view. Only then, when he's out of sight, does Will realize he can breathe again. 

In an effort to busy himself, he crosses the room to the small table Hannibal stood beside only moments before. A shaft of waning sunlight from a nearby window illuminates the table perfectly, and Will glances down as the light catches on gleaming metal. 

A pencil, and beside it, the instrument that he saw the doctor touching just moments before with a thoughtful look on his face as he listened to Will. A scalpel, he notes, the blade unsheathed and shining an almost bloody red in the light from the setting sun. 

Will suddenly feels cold, as if ice water has been slowly poured down his spine. 

Colder still as he moves his hand shakily to the sheaths of parchment, moving aside a portrait of a building, another—this time a still life, before his breath catches in his throat as he sees, recognizes, the last portrait as one he’s seen in vivid color and detail. The real thing. 

_The Wound Man_. 

Thoughts begin to click into place for Will, then, things that he could have— _should_  have—figured out sooner. He starts to turn; to run, to attack, he’s not sure even as he moves. 

He hadn’t heard Doctor Lecter descending the ladder once more, in his socked feet, his suit jacket removed. He didn’t hear him sneak up behind him, only hears the man’s soft sigh when Will turns to face him. 

“This is most unfortunate,” the man says, almost apologetically, before he lunges.  

Will turns to run, but only gets a few feet away before Hannibal tackles him to the ground, his temple bouncing painfully off the shining hardwood floor. A hand threads through his hair, painfully wrenching him up onto his knees as the room swims around him, a distant ringing in his ears from the blow, the frame of his glasses broken and askew as warm blood drips over his eyelashes. 

Will cannot collect himself enough to fight back as an impossibly strong arm loops around his neck, wrenching him back against the man behind him, now also on his knees. Absently, Will wonders at the doctor’s utter calmness, able to feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, pressed against his back. 

“It’s  _you_ ,” he chokes out, and is rewarded with a rough hand beneath his chin, forcing his head back at an angle that nearly paralyzes him both with fear and with pain. It’s a move he knows all too well. A shift of the man’s impossibly strong hands, and his neck will be broken. “You’re  _killing_ them,” he manages to say, his voice becoming hoarse thanks to the pressure of the man’s bicep at his throat that only tightens as he speaks the words. 

“Clever boy,” comes a rough whisper beside his ear, his breath warm against Will’s cheek as he adds, “Truly, such a waste.” 

Will hisses out a breath of pain between his teeth as Hannibal’s grip tightens, enough to nearly cut off his air supply. His fingers scratch uselessly at the arm around his throat as the doctor’s—the  _Ripper’s—_ own fingers tighten around Will’s chin, and he’s forced to arch against the hard line of the man’s body, desperately seeking a few more seconds of life before the vertebrae in his neck are snapped in two. 

“I’m...” he manages, wheezing in one last half-breath to finish whispering in a rush of words, slurred as blackness creeps in around the edges of his vision, “I am, too.” Heat and possessiveness fill his final words, he’s angry; ferociously angry at this man who dared to infringe upon his territory. 

“They were fucking  _mine_.” 

A sharp breath, perhaps of surprise. A moment of indecision, before the hand on his chin moves instead to grip his own wrist, pulling tighter, cutting off Will’s access to oxygen completely. 

Everything abruptly cuts to black. 

x


	6. Fugue (A Revelation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have dinner, which is more interesting than it sounds.

Will wakes abruptly, sucking in a sharp breath as he instinctively remembers the last breath he took—a desperate intake of air before nothingness, having been quite sure in the moment that it was to be his last. 

Even now, as he sucks oxygen into his lungs, Will is not entirely sure that it wasn’t. His head throbs like a sore tooth, his brain feeling as though it’s banging off the walls of his skull, leaving him feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach. He has no designs that he’ll be going to heaven when he does in fact die—he has no designs, after all, in the construct of a heaven or hell—but either way, he thinks in a disconnected way, this is a weird, confusing afterlife. He is in pain; his head hurting, his throat rasping against every intake of breath, but damn if he isn’t comfortable. He hesitates for a moment before he opens his eyes, squinting at his surroundings despite the softness of the light filling the room. 

Although he had momentarily clung onto his dream-like state, he suddenly jerks awake; sitting up so fast that his head spins painfully from the movement. He clutches at his forehead with his hand as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to dull the pain, before jerking his hand away in surprise at the alien feeling of a neat bandage pressed against his temple.  

Abruptly, he remembers the kaleidoscopic effect of light bursting in front of his eyes as his head hit something cold and unforgiving. He struggles to connect the dots. 

A floor.  

A polished wooden floor, in an office. 

The office belonging to the fucking  _Chesapeake Ripper,_ which he wandered into like a lamb unknowingly headed to slaughter. 

Fear grips him momentarily before he remembers the rest, and he’s suddenly irritated as  _shit_. 

“Fucking asshole,” he murmurs to himself as he wrenches his eyes open, the words dying on his lips as he takes in his surroundings. 

He lays atop a large bed—more soft and comfortable than anything he’s ever rested on, even in the homes of his most high-end clients, having spent an evening with more than a few senators while prowling the streets of the capitol. Up until a few moments before, his head was resting on a pile of soft down pillows, covered in pristine white sheets that were formerly pulled up to his chin. He kicks the duvet—a dark, emerald green—off of his legs, frowning down at the sight of his feet. His boots have been removed, revealing a mismatched pair of socks, one black while the other is a derelict, dark gray—the tip of his big toe peeking out from a hole worn through the sock with age.  

He gathers his strength, before he manages to scrabble to his feet, the room spinning for a moment before everything settles once more. The soft light flowing through the floor-to-ceiling length windows on the wall opposite the bed lend to the dream-like quality that hazes his vision, and despite his fight-or-flight instincts trying their best to kick in, he finds himself looking at his surroundings in wonder. 

Stumbling over his boots sat neatly beside the bed, and with his pounding head still effecting his thought processes, he attempts to take everything in. He feels as though he stands in a hidden room of a museum, the bedroom appointed with heavy antique wood: a sleigh-style bed, a six drawer dresser across from it, a dressing table that is unlike the dainty variety that he’s seen in the past; everything in the room somehow exuding masculinity in a subtle way. He stumbles over to the mirror, frowning at his reflection in the glass somewhat clouded by age, both at the bandage on his forehead which he promptly rips off—revealing a painstakingly neat line of six small stitches just at his hairline, mostly hidden beneath an unruly curl spilling over his forehead—and at the bruising around his throat; shades of blue and purple curling round the column like a scarf.  

Although he still feels as though he is in a dream, it’s clear that his memories of the moments before blacking out were quite real. 

His attention is drawn to a painting on the wall beside the bed, and he makes his way towards it, frowning as he tries to connect his thoughts, his brows rising when he does. It is clearly a reproduction, although a very fine one; and Will instantly recognizes it from a book stolen from the local library he poured over as a child.  _The Raft of the Medusa_ , his mind conjures up from his gray matter; the beautifully macabre depiction having captivated him even as a boy. 

He tears his eyes away, blinking hard, managing to collect a few of his lost wits. His legs feel shaky as he crosses the room, tugging on the closed window which appears to be sealed from the outside, before moving to open one heavy wooden door to reveal an empty walk-in closet, then moving on to the second of the three doors, already open, peering into the opulent adjoining bathroom. 

It’s then he sluggishly realizes that nature is calling, and he shuffles over the marble floor within in socked feet to relieve himself. He feels ever so slightly more human when he emerges after splashing water on his face in a sink that looks like a bowl, wincing as the cold water made his stitches burn but thankful that the pain helps him think a bit more clearly. 

When he steps back into the bedroom—his very gilded cage, his mind supplies—he furrows his brow at the sight of a glass of water on the nightstand, and the two little white pills sitting beside it. He takes them in hand, studying them, before placing them in his pocket and downing the entire glass of in one go, not realizing how dehydrated he feels until the cool water touches his tongue. 

His stomach growls, and it’s then that he realizes he smells something incredibly fucking delicious. 

He starts towards the third door in the room, stops for a moment, then tentatively reaches out to touch the doorknob. Although he fully expects it to be locked—he’s confused, yes, but not enough to not realize that he’s being held captive—it opens silently when he turns the knob and pulls.  _Odd_.  

He abandons his shoes, creeping out into the hallway in silence. He stops and peers into every open door, dormant police training kicking in as he checks each room for occupants, before moving on. 

There are several more bedrooms almost identical to the one he just left behind; all decorated in complimentary jewel tones. He spots the stairs, but peeks into the last room on the landing, taken aback when his eyes fall on the expansive space. 

A study, it would seem; a large desk in the middle, a pair of plush armchairs surrounding a table underneath a picture window on the far wall, every square inch of wall space otherwise occupied by bookshelves tall enough to require the sliding ladder the library is equipped with. Each one is filled with books of all sorts; psychological and medical texts, old and new, ancient-looking tomes with well-worn spines proclaiming titles in foreign languages, some Will recognizes and some he does not. 

 _Heaven, after all_ , he thinks with a smirk, before forcing himself to pull away. There’s no reason that he won’t have time to take a few as trophies once he’s freed himself. 

He stops at the heavy wooden desk. There is a letter opener with a bejeweled handle, which he takes, feeling the weight of it in his palm, despite sorely missing the familiarity of his switchblade. 

He leaves the room and makes his way down the stairs in complete silence, years of hunting sharply honing each step. At the bottom of the steps he finds himself in a huge, open foyer, a set of French doors his escape route out of the house. They are clearly unlocked. 

He doesn’t even consider it. Instead, he turns towards the soft sounds and luscious scents pouring from what must be the direction of the kitchen. 

He enters in complete silence, the letter opener clutched tightly in his fist. The Chesapeake Ripper standing at the counter, chopping vegetables with his back to Will cuts a familiar enough figure, despite being the first time Will has seen him dressed so casually; wearing a pair of gray slacks and a simple white shirt, rolled neatly up to his forearms, a chef’s apron tied neatly around a trim waist.  

Hannibal stops cutting for a moment, raises his head to scent the air like an animal, before resuming the practiced rocking motions of the knife against the wooden cutting board. “Hello, Will,” he says, still without turning around, a hint of amusement in his voice as he adds, “Please, put your weapon down. I would rather not take it from you.” 

Will’s eyes widen as he lowers his eyes to the blade glinting in his hand. He doesn’t move to obey. 

Finally, the man turns around, smirking as he finds the boy still staring at his clever choice of weapon in confusion; not knowing that he had tracked each of young Will’s movements as he crept around upstairs. He waits until those stormy blue eyes rise to meet his, allowing a hint of a smile to curve his lips before wiping his hands on a small towel he plucks from the counter, and then gesturing towards the bar in front of him. “Please, have a seat,” he suggests, although Will recognizes it for what it is, an  _instruction_. 

He holds the man’s eyes for a moment, before moving to the bar, carefully pulling out one of the stools before obediently climbing into it. Another pointed look from Hannibal, and he rolls his eyes, sighing as he compromises by placing the letter opener on the dark marble counter, still within arms reach. 

“Resourceful,” Hannibal comments, before very pointedly turning his back on the boy with access to a weapon to add the vegetables to a searing skillet on the stovetop, the scent of them bursting brightly into the room. “Tell me, Will,” he says lightly as he takes up a spatula, moving the perfectly diced bits around in the pan, “How are you feeling?” 

“Like a fucking serial killer bounced my head off the floor,” Will replies dryly, his voice sounding strange—raspy, sedated—to his own ears, like it hasn’t been used in a week. 

Hannibal peers over his shoulder at the boy, a smirk on his lips as he meets his eyes. “Language,” he admonishes, although he sounds more amused than perturbed, and doesn’t bother to correct anything else about Will’s statement. 

Will grins, baring his teeth. “Fuck you,  _Doctor_ ,” he replies easily, with no care for the repercussions of his words. 

Hannibal looks thoughtful, turning his gaze back to his vegetables. “I could,” he muses to them as they pop and steam in the pan, “I have, after all, paid more than enough to fuck  _you_ , should I so choose.” 

Will snorts in response, amused at hearing the word  _fuck_  come from such a refined tongue. “Kind of missed your chance,” he replies, watching the man’s every movement as he turns away from the stove, fetching a stemmed wine glass tucked in a corner of the counter, still half-filled.  

“So it seems,” he concedes, lifting the glass to his nose to take a whiff after swirling the red liquid around, stopping just before he takes a sip to look at Will over its crystal rim. “How terribly rude of me,” he says, lowering the glass once more before asking, “Would you care for a glass of wine, William?” 

Will blinks. “ _That’s_  what you consider terribly rude?” he asks, astonished and amused. Hannibal merely looks at him serenely, his eyes the color of honey under the soft lighting above, obviously waiting for an answer. “I prefer bourbon,” he tells him, frowning as the doctor smirks before moving to fetch another wine glass, pouring more of the deep red liquid into the glass than he normally would deem acceptable. Will gapes at it as he presents it to him. “Seriously?” the boy asks, rolling those big, beautiful blue eyes again, “Can’t even have what I want for my last drink?” 

Hannibal smiles placidly at how completely unbothered the boy seems to be about his impending death, watching as he pulls the glass of wine closer to him, peering into the fragrant red thoughtfully. He glances up at the older man, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and although he feels compelled to tell him that he wouldn’t dare poison the meat of such a beautiful, but cantankerous specimen, he simply turns away to refill his own glass. Will watches as he takes a drink, before taking up the wine between slender fingers and allowing himself a gulp of his own, smacking his lips afterward simply to get a rise out of the man. 

Hannibal doesn’t rise to the occasion, instead staring at Will across the counter with that same maddeningly calm expression. Normally, Will would feel pressed to try to make conversation in such a situation, but oddly at the moment he does not. They drink in companionable silence for a few minutes, Hannibal occasionally turning back to the stove to stir the vegetables or to check the oven. Each time it opens, a scent pours out that causes Will’s mouth to water, and causes Hannibal to smirk when the boy’s stomach growls loudly. 

“Dinner will be ready soon,” he announces, smirking inwardly when he adds, “I do hope you brought your appetite, Will.” 

“ _Brought_  implies I’m here willfully,” the boy points out, taking another sip of his wine. It really is incredibly delicious, not that he would admit that out loud. 

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” Hannibal asks as he removes the vegetables from the heat, covering the pan with a glass lid to allow them to finish cooking in their own steam.  

Will gives the back of the man’s neck a droll look. “School,” he replies, swirling his wine in his glass until a drop pops out and splashes on the counter. 

Hannibal turns as if he heard the small sound it makes, frowning down at the drop of red wine on his pristine counter until Will finds himself reaching out, wiping up his mess with the sleeve of his shirt. Appeased, the older man leans back against the counter. “It is nearly seven, on a Saturday evening,” he points out, quite enjoying the way the boy’s eyes widen as he takes in this information. 

“How—” he starts, swallowing thickly, “I came to your office on a—” 

“I have kept you sedated for several days,” Hannibal explains, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do to a house guest. In truth, he had acted most spontaneously by sparing the boy’s life; an act of pure whimsy brought about by the interesting words Will spoke just before Hannibal was ready to snap his lovely neck. He decided he needed a few days to reflect on what he had done—or more importantly, what he  _hadn’t_  done. When Will opens his mouth to object, he smoothly interrupts before he has a chance, “I have spent the time that has passed in the interim attempting to decide what I shall do with you.” 

Will considers his words thoughtfully. “And what have you decided?” he asks, tilting his head to the side in a way that causes the light to catch in his eyes. Having those inquisitive eyes on him now, where before they were hidden under heavy lids, makes him waver in his decision.  

“We shall see, will we not?” he answers honestly. In truth, he finds he quite enjoys the way the boy causes him to think on his feet. “Did you take the aspirin provided on the nightstand?” he asks, and Will gives him another look, his suspicion of the pills clear. “You should,” he tells him, turning to a cabinet to pull down a glass, before moving to the stainless steel refrigerator to procure a pitcher of water. He fills it, before turning back to the boy, offering the glass of water in his direction. “Take them, then take a shower, if you don’t mind,” he instructs, causing Will to snort as he adds, “I shall bring you a change of clothes.” 

“Are you saying I stink?” he asks, his lips parting in an amused smile, reaching up to tug the collar of his shirt aside to take a whiff, his frown indicating that his nose has answered his own question. 

Hannibal feels himself smile. “You have been resting for a few days, after all,” he replies, his voice uncharacteristically warm. 

“What,” Will asks, almost teasingly, “No sponge baths while I ‘rested’,  _Doc_?”  

At this, the older man’s smile fades, his fair brows only just knitting together, enough that Will notices. “I would not presume to do such a thing without consent,” he replies, and despite himself, Will barks out a laugh. 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing back his stool from the bar, absently moving it back in place, “But you  _will_  choke me out, and drag me back to your house for days without my consent.” He shakes his head, turning to leave, even as he wonders what in the entire fuck he is doing. “Whatever,” he adds over his shoulder, “You’re really fucking weird, Doctor Lecter.” 

He leaves the room, but the words still follow him. “Language, William,” he hears the man chide. 

Hannibal listens as Will climbs the stairs, and a few moments later he hears the sound of the pipes whispering a groan as the water begins to run in the shower upstairs. Removing the main course from the oven, he places the dish on the ornate antique trivet beside the stove to let the meat rest, before he follows the boy up the stairs. 

After spending a few minutes of consideration in his own closet, he chooses something he hopes the boy will be comfortable in, despite his own rules concerning one’s dress at his dinner table. Quietly, he lets himself into the guest room down the hall from his own, watching the steam pour from the cracked bedroom door thoughtfully for a moment before forcing his eyes away, placing the clothes he chose on the end of the bed, and returns to the kitchen. 

He’s in the process of rolling his sleeves back down when the scent of the imported brand of soap he prefers filters through his senses, earthy and clean, and he stills in the action of buttoning his cuffs once more when he looks up. Hair still wet and curls plastered to his head from the shower, Will stands in the doorway of his kitchen, looking for a moment almost shy as he fiddles with the sleeve of the deep red sweater Hannibal chose for him, looking down at his bare toes. Hannibal swallows, taking in the sight of him in the sweater and soft plaid pajama pants that are both a few sizes too big for the boy.  _His_  clothes, draped on the frame of another. Another who finally raises his gaze, fixating him with what he’s sure are the bluest eyes he has ever seen, save for one pair that have been lost to him for decades now. 

When the warm, clean scent of the boy’s freshly scrubbed skin reaches his nose, he forces himself to turn away. As he pulls down stark white dishes for lack of anything better to do to occupy his hands, he hears Will pad barefoot across the expanse of the kitchen, taking his seat at the bar once more. 

“That painting in my room,” the boy starts, hesitatingly, his choice of words seeming lost to him despite ringing loudly enough in Hannibal’s own ears as he’s forced to stop what he’s doing to turn and look at him over his shoulder. A pause, where they both stare at each other, before Will licks his lips and glances down at the letter opener, still resting where he placed it. “ _Le_ _Radeau_ _de la_ _Méduse_ ,” he says, in perfect French, but for the southern drawl that slows the words rolling off his tongue. He must see something in Hannibal’s expression, and he tilts his head, asking self-consciously, “Isn’t it?” 

“It is,” Hannibal replies softly after a moment, mentally shaking off his momentary surprise, before turning his attention back to plating their dinner. “It is a reproduction, of course,” he goes on to explain, carefully moving pieces of the meat from the baking dish onto the plate, “The original being held in Louvre, and standing at over sixteen feet tall.” 

Will hums, glancing down at his hands, picking idly at his short, blunt nails. “I read about it in a book that I—” he starts, before stopping abruptly. He clears his throat, keeping his eyes lowered as he changes direction. “It depicts the aftermath of a shipwreck, doesn’t it?” 

“Indeed, it does,” Hannibal replies, his pleasant surprise at this boy growing by the moment. “Created by Théodore Géricault, a French romantic painter in the second decade of the nineteenth century,” he explains, wondering just how much Will truly knows. If he hadn’t taken his phone into his own possession, he would have thought the boy looked the painting up on the internet; but he knows instead this is more unexpected knowledge that he holds within his pretty little head. A brilliant mind, a pure surprise.  

He plates the vegetables, enjoying the contrast of their bright colors and the meat’s tender reds and pinks against the white plates. “A French warship,” he goes on thoughtfully, adding a delicate drizzle of vinaigrette to adorn the plate, “Launched in 1810, as I recall, and sank due to a gale in mid-1816. It ran aground in shallow water. Those not rescued from her by the ship’s launches were forced to take refuge on a shoddily-built raft, which was then abandoned by those safe on the boats, left out at sea in fear that the launches would be overcome by the desperate sailors left on the raft.” 

Will nods, hidden from view behind Hannibal’s broad back, at which he openly stares at as the man works, watching the roil of muscle beneath the stretch of white linen. “Nearly one-hundred and fifty aboard,” he says, then pauses to take a sip of the wine which was topped off while he was in the shower, still suspecting—but finding he doesn’t care much—that it might be poisoned. It's  _really_ fucking good.  

“One-hundred and forty-six men, to be exact,” Hannibal adds, turning after picking up one plate and then balancing the other carefully on his forearm, the other reaching for his glass of wine. “And one unfortunate woman. Only fifteen men survived. Come, William,” he instructs, “Join me in the dining room, and we shall continue our conversation.” 

Will feels himself moving to stand, not sure exactly why he’s being so obedient, besides the fact that he’s fucking starving. He grabs his glass of wine, leaving the letter opener behind before following the older man into the next room; a dining room befitting the rest of the ostentatious house, with deep blue walls with a fragrant herb garden adorning it, and a depiction of Leda and the Swan hanging over the mantle across the room. 

Will watches as Hannibal moves into the room with the fragrant plates of food. He gestures for Will to take the head of the table, the place of an honored guest, which nearly causes the boy to laugh. Instead he quite disobediently sits instead at the seat directly to the right. Hannibal considers him for a moment, this rumpled boy sitting at his dining table, oversized sweater nearly hanging off one shoulder, exposing creamy skin and the lovely bruises he himself left behind a few days before, the same color as their wine. The boy is smiling as he looks up at the older man through his lashes, blinking those large, enchanting eyes, as Hannibal smoothly recovers and places the plate in front of him at his chosen seat, announcing with a flourish, “Heart, massaged with a simple marinade of balsamic vinaigrette and olive oil, stuffed with Italian sausage, bread crumbs, celery, bacon, and red bell pepper.”  

Will blinks, looks down at the plate before him, the neat little pinwheels sliced from the stuffed— _what—_ heart. Who eats a fucking heart? 

“Is that all?” he hears himself asking playfully, causing the older man to smile as he takes his seat—also forgoing the head of the table, instead seating himself across from his guest. 

“I’m afraid so,” he answers just as lightly, pausing to sniff the bouquet of his wine before taking a drink, cleansing his palate before his meal. “I made the sausage and bacon myself,” he informs will, smirking as Will rolls his eyes. 

“Of course you did,” the boy replies easily, licking his lips as he studies the mouthwatering meal set before him—quite literally the most beautiful plate of food he’s ever seen, even after their meal together a few nights before in the restaurant. “You’re careful about what you put in your body,” he hums, remembering the older man’s words that night, and Hannibal is obviously pleased that he does so. 

“Indeed, I am,” he answers, staring at Will across the wide, heavy wooden dining table; in much the same way, Will notes, that he himself just gazed down at his meal. His eyes on him make Will distinctly uncomfortable all the sudden, although he does nothing outwardly to show it. He begins to take up his fork, pauses, and looks up at the older man once more. “Why did you cook me dinner, Doctor Lecter?” he asks, sounding his age, for once. 

Hannibal smiles, widely enough to show off the tips of sharp canines. He’s so glad the boy asked, and indulges him with an honest answer. “You mentioned your distress in my office,” he begins, tilting his head slightly to the side as he adds, “You insinuated that I took something that belonged to you. Sharing this particular meal seems like the least I could do to make that up to you.” 

Will stares, then slowly blinks. He glances down at the plate in front of him, his heartbeat picking up speed, and for some reason he feels sure that the man across from him can hear it. 

 _Clever boy,_ he hears the doctor say, an echo of his words in his office a few days prior. Clever boy, indeed. The scattered puzzle pieces of his thoughts begin falling into place.  

Hannibal is still watching him with rapt attention. Will reaches for his wine, taking a slow sip, letting his eyes wander to the painting above the mantle once more. “ _Leda and the Swan_ ,” he names, watching as the older man’s dark eyes move from his face to follow his gaze. “You have rather odd taste in art, Doctor Lecter,” he says slowly, as if tasting each and every word, “Quite out of place in a dining room such as this...just like  _The Raft of Medusa_  in the bedroom.” 

“Oh?” Hannibal asks lightly, his eyes glittering in the glow of the chandelier above them, “I found it quite fitting.” 

Will can’t help it, he smiles, because it's honestly really fucking hilarious; wondering at finding someone with his own dark sense of humor, even if he knows that this can only end in a bloody way. 

He wets his lips, watches as Hannibal’s eyes lower to watch the movement with his full attention. “The people that fled the sinking ship,” Will says thoughtfully, holding the man’s strangely colored eyes, glinting with the slightest hint of red in his irises as he listens to the boy rapturously, “The ones that survived the first few days resorted to cannibalism, as I recall.” 

Hannibal looks exceedingly pleased. “They did, indeed,” he intones, those eyes sparkling with mirth and something akin to excitement. 

Will glances down at his plate, and then up at the older man again. Without breaking their eye contact, Will reaches down, carefully taking up the gleaming sterling knife and fork on either side of his plate. He lowers his gaze long enough to cut a slice of the stuffed heart with his knife, before gathering up a forkful, along with a bite of the sautéed vegetables. 

Hannibal waits until the boy looks up at him again, before allowing his eyes to drop to stare openly as the fork passes his lips. Much like that the night at the restaurant, Will drags the tines against his plush lower lip before pulling it away, chewing thoughtfully, while Hannibal watches the lovely curve of his jaw work, utterly enchanted. 

“This is wonderful, Doctor,” he says once he swallows, looking up at Hannibal through his lashes again as he prepares his next bite, his blue eyes warm with amusement when he catches the older man’s gaze still lingering on his throat; first at the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, then at the bruises coloring his neck from below his chin to where his collarbones meet.  

The man blinks, smiles indulgently, and then takes up his own fork and knife. He takes a bite, and Will watches as he allows his eyes to fall closed, savoring the same flavors that explode across Will’s own tongue. 

He waits until Hannibal opens his eyes again to speak. “I’ll kill you, you know,” he tells the man across from him in his sweet, almost boyish tone, the corner of his mouth curving as he adds, “Before I’ll let you eat me.” 

Hannibal chews, thoughtfully considers. “You will try, of this I am certain,” he replies once he’s swallowed, “I find myself quite looking forward to it.” 

They both smile at each other, predatory eyes drinking the other in. Hannibal takes up his wine, swirls it in the glass, before nodding in the boy’s direction. 

“Finish your dinner, Will,” he tells the spectacularly interesting, beautiful little creature at his table. 

Will’s answering smile is dark. He does. 

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, my friends...I finished the basic skeleton outline of this fic and added a few tags accordingly. I plan to treat the unpleasant subjects with the utmost care, I assure you, and nothing in great detail; I only intend to touch on the subjects at all because they are integral to the plot and the characters of this particular AU. But, warnings are warnings for a reason. I love you all, please take care of yourselves <3


	7. Woke Up Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have themselves a little meeting of the minds.

The sun seems to be shining a little brighter. The birds chirping more merrily than usual. The notes of the aria softly playing through hidden speakers in his study more beautiful than it was when he last heard it, a few days before. 

It is, in some ways, a brand new day. 

Hannibal catches himself staring wistfully out the window, the sprawling room on the second floor allowing him a picturesque view of his property; the grass seeming greener, the trees dancing happily in the breeze, the clouds fluffy and happy as they drift across a sky the color of— 

He stops, shakes his head at himself, wondering what’s gotten into him. 

He knows, of course,  _exactly_  what has gotten into him. The boy— _Will—_ sleeps soundly down the hall, eyes closed and stealing from the world the blue that even the afternoon sky cannot best. He had allowed himself to look in earlier, around ten in the morning, wondering if the boy had taken his chance to sneak out while he himself was sleeping. 

It was a test, of course; one that failing would mean watching the life leave those eyes, even if he is becoming strangely loath for that to happen. It was a test passed, instead, as he found Will asleep under the covers, one arm thrown across his eyes and muttering softly in his sleep; a lovely, light sheen of sweat noticeable as it pooled in the space between his collarbones. 

He had slept in Hannibal’s sweater, something that made him catch himself with a small smile on his face, before deciding to no longer be rude and shutting the bedroom door once more. 

That had been hours ago, and  _that_  had been hours after Hannibal had rose from his slumber, spent his usual time primping and dressing until he was satisfactorily pristine, before heading downstairs to make coffee and breakfast—neither of which the ornery young man joined him for, much to his disappointment, even after making more noise than was strictly necessary in hopes of waking him. 

Eventually, he had found his way to where he currently resides; sitting in a straight-backed armchair underneath the unnecessary light of an antique floor lamp, with one leg crossed over the other at the knee, a first-edition of  _À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu_ open across his lap. He’s still flipping through it idly, half of his mind somewhere else entirely, when he hears the soft sound of footsteps coming down the hall. 

He forces himself not to look up when the boy walks by, not noticing Hannibal at first, before he turns back to peer into the study with owlish eyes and wild curls. Even from across the room, Hannibal can smell him; sweet and warm still from sleep. 

“Morning,” Will says as he shuffles into the room in bare feet, seemingly unflustered by their odd, unspoken accord of peace.  

Only then does Hannibal allow himself to look up, keeping his face perfectly placid as he eyes the younger man, wearing his own pajama pants slung low around his hips and gathered too long at his feet, and the ill-fitting sweater hanging off one shoulder. His eyes drop to follow the curve of the boy’s neck, purple bruises unfortunately beginning to fade, wetting his lips before he corrects him, “ _Afternoon_.” 

“Oh?” Will replies with a smirk, scratching his fingers through his hair as he pads further into the room. He doesn’t speak again until he crosses the room completely, out of Hannibal’s line of sight, although in his peripheral vision he sees the boy taking a closer look at his library’s collection. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good night sleep,” he murmurs, walking his fingers over the well-worn spines. 

Hannibal hums, turning another page. “You had a full belly, as well as a warm bed. Both are conducive to good sleep,” he replies, keeping his tone distant. 

“Yeah, well,” Will says, completely behind his chair now, although Hannibal easily follows the sounds of his movements, “There’s nothing in my life that’s conducive to good sleep, Doctor Lecter.” 

Another page turns beneath his fingers. “Insomnia?” he asks the boy, keeping his voice even and uninterested. 

Behind him, safe from the eye contact he’s so obviously not fond of, Will huffs a self-depreciating laugh. “No,” he answers, before he laughs shortly again. “Well, yes...I guess technically. But it’s more of an effect than a causation.” Hannibal doesn’t ask, waiting patiently, and smiling small to himself when the boy continues on without prodding, “I have nightmares. And I sleepwalk. So sometimes, yeah, I avoid sleeping...wouldn’t you?” 

He gives the question proper thought, considering his own mind’s habit of unpleasantness while he sleeps, and then decides not to answer it. “Nightmares are often the ghosts of the things that we fear most,” he says instead, adding to his book, “What is it that you fear, Will? What haunts you behind closed eyes?” 

“Fear is the price of imagination,” the boy answers from behind him, “Imagination is something I have in spades, unfortunately.”  

Hannibal lifts his eyes from his book, contemplating Will’s words and the weight behind them, the way the boy’s voice suddenly sounds older, heavier, as he departs with half-answers. He wants to turn to look at him, to see his expressive face, but he calls on his iron will to return his gaze to the book in his lap. “And yet,” he says thoughtfully, “You slept well last night.” 

Will snorts, and despite being an ugly sound, it brings the barest hint of a smile to Hannibal’s lips. It only grows when he adds, “Yeah, well...maybe that’s because instead of the nightmare being in my head last night, it instead had taken a human form, sleeping just down the hall.” 

Even to his own ears, Hannibal hears the almost dreamy tone in his voice. “So says the boy who lures men with the promises of a few hours of ecstasy to their deaths,” he muses aloud, terribly amused, “Would that I could see inside that pretty little head of yours.” 

Will sniffs, his fingers fiddling against the ladder that Hannibal used hours before to procure the particular title that he now holds. “You’d regret it,” he informs the older man, “My thoughts are often not... _tasty_.” 

“Nor mine,” Hannibal replies, still smiling, shockingly enough, and adding lightly, “But the rest of you, dear William, most certainly would be.” 

Hannibal hears the boy freeze momentarily, and despite his best attempts at moving silently, he hears him as he approaches the chair Hannibal sits in. Even still, the older man is surprised when Will hangs over the chair’s upholstered back, one arm spread across it so that he can dip his head nearly to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. 

For his part, Hannibal stays static and unmoving, with herculean effort. 

“Are you hitting on me, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks, his voice coming just by Hannibal’s ear, his smile audible in his tone as he teases, “Or was that a fucking cannibal pun?” 

Hannibal raises his chin, before turning his head to meet Will’s eyes. The boy, formerly being so bold, suddenly seems to realize he has bitten off more than he can chew; their faces so close together it would take little to no movement for their lips to brush, Hannibal’s eyes flashing with crimson around the edges thanks to a shaft of sunlight artfully cast through the nearby window over his face. To his credit, Will doesn’t look away, his eyes drifting slowly down to the older man’s lips before returning to his eyes, holding his breath. 

“Your language is positively atrocious,” Hannibal warns softly, unable to stop himself from searching those blue-gray eyes; unlike any he’s ever seen before. He waits a breath, listening to the boy’s heart beating in his ears, before pointedly returning to his book and adding, “And I am sure I do not know what you are referring to, Will.” 

The boy makes a soft sound of astonishment when freed from Hannibal’s gaze, but to both of their surprise he doesn’t move away from his chosen perch. Instead, he peers over Hannibal’s shoulder, affording him the opportunity to breathe in deeply the lovely, warm scent of the young man once again, cataloging it in his vast memory in case he wants to further examine it later. For one surprising moment, he finds himself completely lost in it, not realizing it until the moment Will speaks. 

“ _In Search of Lost Time_ ,” he murmurs, still peeking over the older man’s shoulder at the book he chose for a few hours entertainment. Hannibal calls on years of practice to keep his expression perfectly even, his eyes raking over the open page, yellowed from age and printed entirely in French, looking for some clue as to how Will has recognized the title. To his surprise he finds nothing, no title printed on that particular page, and so he can only assume that this is yet more proof that this boy is more than meets the eye. He raises a fair brow, and as if Will can see it from his current position, he explains with amusement, “I read it in college.” 

“Law school?” Hannibal hears himself ask, scarcely teasing, throwing back to their initial conversation and one of the many lies Will first fed him the night that they met in pure happenstance.  

Something in the boy’s countenance beside him changes ever so slightly, and Hannibal realizes Will is smiling without needing to check for certainty. “Sure,” he answers lightly, gracefully side-stepping Hannibal’s intent to pry. “As I recall,” he goes on, “The volumes are steeped deeply in themes of homosexuality and manipulation.” 

At this, Hannibal can’t help it—he laughs, even if it is a muted, quiet sound. “Oh, Will,” he says, as gleefully as he gets, “Your mind is truly a treasure. Please, continue.” 

Will stands straight once more, before wandering away, plopping down in Hannibal’s chair’s mate across from him. He smiles, showing off neat white teeth, his eyes twinkling through a mess of curls across his forehead as he holds Hannibal’s gaze. “I was just going to say, that’s kind of transparent...for you, anyway,” he tells the older man, batting absurdly long lashes. 

“How so?” Hannibal asks, genuinely interested, more amused than he can remember being in what must be years. 

“I know when someone wants to fuck me, Doctor Lecter,” the boy replies, his smile shifting into a grin as he looks Hannibal up and down, taking in his perfectly pressed suit—the opposite of the boy, who is disheveled in borrowed pajamas in the middle of the day. “And you manipulated me to get me here, forced me to stay here with you,” he adds, although it’s plain to see he isn’t entirely put out by this. 

“One could argue that I simply cut off your air supply until you lost consciousness to get you here, and drugged you so that you had no choice but to stay,” Hannibal retorts, his eyes crinkling just so around the corners with his efforts not to smile, “Hardly a manipulation, if one looks at the situation in that light.” 

Will gives him a droll look as he pulls his bare feet up into the chair beneath him, although his smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. “Do you really want to split hairs right now, Doctor?” he asks, a beautiful curve to his lips. 

“I find that splitting things open gives us a much better idea of what lies in wait inside,” Hannibal points out, enjoying this parry of words—both those spoken, and those pointedly left unspoken. He inclines his head, licks his lips to garner the boy’s attention, before asking lightly, “Do you not, young Will?” 

Will holds his eyes for a long moment, before asking with a small smile, “Is that your way of asking why I do what I do?” 

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks up as he tilts his head, considering Will’s words. “It would be a great misrepresentation of my desires if I told you I was not curious,” he says slowly, peering at the boy across the space that separates them. 

“As am I,” Will intones, returning his smile with one of his own. The boy’s smile fades after a moment, and he looks down at his lap, his palms smoothing the material of his borrowed pajama pants down his thighs before he speaks again. “You can hardly keep me here,” he says, and Hannibal almost smiles at how unsure the boy sounds of this fact. 

“Can’t I?” the older man responds, arching a brow. 

Will blinks, the contraction sounding strange in the man’s foreign accent. “Well, I suppose you could,” he admits, smirking as if this is all just a game to him—a distinct lack of respect for his life that Hannibal finds both amusing and terribly interesting. “But I don’t think it would be in your best interest,” he adds, still smiling, “Considering Jack Crawford would easily put together that I disappeared while following up on the Ripper.” 

Hannibal watches placidly as Will gives him a look, clearly meant to silently remind them both that the Ripper has been found. “All the more reason why I should not allow you to continue on living,” Hannibal says, his tone carefully controlled, curious of the reasons why he can’t seem to imagine killing this particular boy. “You found me,” he goes on, his voice light but dangerous, “You even threatened to  _kill_  me, if memory serves.” 

Will’s eyes glitter with pride. “And yet you didn’t have me for breakfast this morning,” he replies, gesturing down at himself, all his limbs and organs still intact for the moment. “And as you’ve already stated,” he purrs, looking at the older man through his lashes in a flirtatious way, “It’s not for lack of  _tastiness_  on my part.” 

Hannibal licks his lips, his tongue lingering momentarily between sharp teeth, having imagined all morning long how delicious Will’s young body would taste in any number of haute dishes. Will does not miss the flash of hunger in the older man’s eyes, and it obviously pleases him, his smile widening enough to even white teeth.  

The young man is a pure  _delight_. 

As if to prove his very thoughts, the boy opens his pretty mouth once more. “I was pulled from my classrooms to catch you, and you do not want to be caught,” he muses thoughtfully. His eyes suddenly feel as though they’re piercing Hannibal like a bullet, and he watches, nearly smitten though he would never admit it even to himself, as the boy’s long lashes flutter closed. His chest expands with a deep breath as he rests his head against the back of his chair, letting it out slowly and there's a palpable shift in the air before he continues in a suddenly eerie sounding whisper, his voice low and steady, “You want to fuck me, kill me,  _eat_  me...and not necessarily in that order.” He smiles softly, his dark lashes fanning out beautifully over pale cheeks. “I would have died in your office, if not for my confession,” he goes on, and Hannibal distinctly feels the fair hairs on the back of his neck prick up, “I’ve made you curious, and curiosity is something you can’t ignore. You want to peel back my layers, one by one, until you know me inside and out. Until you understand what makes me tick. You’ve never known anyone like you before, and you’re positively  _tantalized_ by the idea of some form of companionship. Fellowship. Dare I say it... _friendship_.” 

Hannibal couldn’t speak, even if he wanted to. He simply stares at the boy sitting across from him, his mouth dry, his eyes dilated, completely enthralled. 

He even allows himself to curse internally, because what the fuck was  _that_. 

Will is still smiling softly when he opens his eyes, a dreamy glaze lingering over bright blue as he wets his lips and tilts his head to the side. “Got nothing to say,  _Doctor_?” he asks, tauntingly, “That’s got to be a first.” 

The boy isn’t wrong, much to Hannibal’s chagrin. “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with,” he hears himself quoting distantly. 

Will smiles, and Hannibal can’t help the way he stares, unblinking, at the gorgeous show of teeth. “Quid pro quo?” he asks, relaxing back in his seat as he references their first meeting, what he refused Hannibal the night they met. 

His own words repeated back to him breaks him out of his stupor, his senses sharpening once more as he narrows his dark eyes at the boy. “I believe you informed me the last time those words were spoken that you do not find me interesting,” he murmurs, watching as Will takes his lower lip between his teeth, wondering at the ache it sparks in him when he does. “Shall I assume that something has changed, Will?” 

Will’s smile fades, his head tilting to the side, his messy curls sticking out at all angles against the dark backdrop of the chair he sits in. “Quite a lot has changed, Doctor Lecter,” he replies, his own eyes darkening as he takes the older man in, still riding the high of catching the collected man off guard by the flaunting of his abilities. “I’ve literally studied you,” he tells him, noticing that the man still seems too affected to preen, “I’ve written papers about you. About your kills, the how’s and why’s of your motivations.” He smiles, another graceful show of teeth. “I’ve stumbled upon quite the opportunity to see whether or not I’m right,” he says, lifting his chin, “Or to learn what ways I may be wrong.” 

Hannibal wonders if the boy realizes how much eye contact they’re engaged in, or if he’s spared a thought for his glasses—the frames  which Hannibal had entertained the idea of having fixed while the boy slept, drugged to the gills, until he realized they were merely a curious prop, the lenses non-prescription. “I agree,” he answers finally, still appraising this boy who he finds himself seriously faltering in deciding what to do with him, “It seems we have both been afforded a most unique opportunity.” 

Will smiles, dark and glorious, and he is stunning. Hannibal’s own eyes sparkle with exhilaration as he returns the boy’s expression. 

 _Friendship_ , he thinks to himself, already imagining sinking his hands deeper into the boy’s mind, fingers curling around his darkest thoughts and motivations, crushing some as it suits him, perhaps even nurturing others. 

A unique opportunity, indeed. 

x


	8. Far From Any Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is having himself a shitty day.

Although Will has never been much of a morning person, or a Monday person, he finds himself stumbling through his classes more so than usual, only half-listening to his professors droning on about good faith warrant exceptions and, laughably, poking around in private medical records.  

If only they knew the world of trouble he has gotten himself into, doing just that—with the head of the BAU’s blessing, no less.  

His mind is nowhere near Quantico as his second to last class for the day begins to wrap up; instead his thoughts keep trailing back to a ridiculous-looking mansion in Baltimore. He’s still mildly surprised that he made it out of there alive, despite his pretending that he didn’t believe Hannibal would kill him, although the focus of his thoughts are on the memories of the nonviolent acts that transpired between those walls than the looming threat of death.  

A delicate balance was somehow found during he and the doctor’s conversations, each having some idea of what the other is capable of, and knowing that in many ways they were in a deadlock. They both know each others most closely guarded secret already, and Will would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that the prospect of someone knowing his truth is just as interesting as the doctor seemed to find it himself. For both of them, the idea of this accord between them—a  _friendship_ , as Will had suggested whilst digging through the older man’s mind—is enough to stay both their hands for now. Will knows that just as he still entertains the idea of ending the killer who infringed upon his territory, the man still entertains the idea of ending the boy, for self-preservation purposes as much as his own amusement.  

But over the heart of one of the men that belonged to Will, shared with him like a peace offering, the wordless accord was made nonetheless. They would see where this goes, and when their ‘friendship’ was no longer practical, it would most certainly end. 

The thought of Will’s heart passing those lips, nourishing that body after he was gone, thrilled him more than it had any right to. 

Part of him tries to find it within himself to be disgusted by the way his mouth waters simply  _thinking_  of the meal they had shared two nights before, but the fact remains that it was the best thing he had ever put in his mouth. The conversation, as well, was more intriguing than anything else he had ever experienced. Like minds coming together, so very different in many ways but still vastly similar. He hungers for more, as much as he hungers for the blood and violence that will inevitably be the end of this escapade. Almost as much as he hungers for… 

His thoughts are—luckily—abruptly interrupted by the sounds of his fellow students gathering their things, and he blinks up at his instructor, having not realized that the class had finally ended. He shakes himself, and reaches up to run a hand down his face, feeling the slight callouses on his fingers and palms catch first on the stitches on his forehead, and then on the several days of stubble darkening his cheeks. He had come back to his dorm in a daze the day before, sleeping away the rest of the evening and the night, woken up by nightmares practically every hour on the hour until it was time for his first class. He hadn’t bothered to shave, worn out from an unrestful night of sleep, still sluggish from the drugs Hannibal apparently dosed him with, and more than a little perturbed that all he could think about under the low pressure patter of the dormitory’s bathroom was the heavenly feeling of rainfall from his  _last_  shower. 

With a last look down at his laptop—a blank word processor document without a single note from the lecture staring back at him—Will begins to gather up his things, shoving them all haphazardly into his satchel. Grateful that most of the class has already departed, he slings the bag over his shoulder, staring pointedly down at his boots as he picks his way through the few remaining students and out into the halls of the Academy.  

He doesn’t look up until he hears a somewhat familiar voice. “Hey, Graham,” it says, and he sighs before forcing his eyes up, taking in the figure leaned back against the wall across from his classroom with her arms crossed across her chest, a smile on her lovely face. 

“Katz,” he replies shortly, turning to walk to his next class, hoping to get the rest of the day over with as quickly as possible. He’s not sure if it’s too much social interaction over the last several days, his shitty night sleep, or the fucking  _blow to the head_  he suffered in a certain psychiatrist’s office, but his head throbs and he’s all the grumpier for it—no small feat, considering. 

Much to his dismay, Beverly falls into step beside him. “Where ya going?” she asks lightly. 

“Class,” he answers curtly, even as he’s considering skipping and leaving, perhaps stealing away to his ratty little studio apartment off campus where he can at least wake up screaming from his nightmares undisturbed. 

“How about you come with me instead?” she suggests, and he finally stops, turns to look at her with a furrowed brow. He has no problem with waiting in silence until she speaks again, and she seems to catch onto this quicker than others, something he begrudgingly admits to himself that he appreciates. “Jack told me to come get you,” she explains, “We’ve got a live one.” At this, Will arches a brow, and Beverly sighs before amending, “I mean...you know. A dead one. But a  _real_  dead one, not just pictures this time. He wants you to come take a look.” 

Will opens his mouth to argue, closes it. “Is it...” he starts, swallowing thickly on the words, “Is it the Ripper?” 

Beverly shrugs. “I think that’s why Jack wants you to come,” she tells him, reaching out to touch his shoulder, seemingly unbothered by his automatic flinch at the contact. “Come on,” she says, and she sounds almost—dare he even think it— _friendly_ , “You can ride with me, kiddo. You want to stop for coffee on the way? No offense but...you look like shit.” 

Will tries to smile, he really does, but his expression greatly misses the mark. All he can think about is a body,  _another_  body, and the name who has no face to everyone at the FBI but one. 

_Him_. 

*** 

Will doesn’t stir as Beverly’s little blue compact car comes to a stop at the edge of a field, grass dulled brown by winter; only when he hears Jack Crawford rapping his knuckle against the window he leans against. Each knock feels as though dams are bursting within his skull where he rested his temple against the glass, bringing an end to the kindness the agent showed him by allowing him a mostly peaceful ride to the crime scene. He had drifted off, soothed by the sounds of classic rock on the radio, the window cool against his throbbing head, and the sounds of the highway beneath the car’s wheels. “You awake?” Jack asks, his voice slightly muffled by the window, leaning down to peer inside where Will is practically curled up in the seat. 

“I am now,” he responds weakly, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching into his pocket for the little bottle of aspirin he plucked earlier out of his bag, washing two of the pills down with the cold remains of the coffee Beverly insisted on paying for that has otherwise failed abysmally in its job of waking him up. Jack wrenches open the door, and Will steps out, blinking his heavy eyes at the brightness of the sun washing over the rolling field he finds himself in. He frowns down at his boots as they sink into the soft, slightly muddy earth, wet still from the most recent snow. “Where are we?”  

“In the middle of bumfuck nowhere,” comes a cheerful voice, and Will blinks, turns his head to find Jimmy Price approaching with Bryan Zeller—as, apparently, always—in tow. There are plenty of other techs on the scene, none of which Will has met, and by Jack’s cruiser stands Fredrick Chilton with a look of disgust on his pinched face, staring down at his no doubt obscenely overpriced loafers getting covered with mud. “About an hour outside of Alexandria,” Price adds, regaining Will’s shaky attention, his brow furrowing as he adds, “You okay, kid?” 

“He’s fine,” Jack barks, before hooking his large hand around Will’s elbow, giving him a slight shake until he turns to look at him. “Is your head in the game, Graham?” he presses, “Because I  _need_  your head in the game.” 

“Ready for kickoff, sir,” he answers, not exactly politely, but after receiving as close to the answer he was looking for as he’s going to get, Jack doesn’t chide him for it. 

“Good,” the agent answers, before finally releasing Will’s arm. He looks out across the field, and Will’s eyes follow him, watching the techs move around in the little valley between meager hills. “I need you to tell me if it’s  _him_ ,” Jack says, his eyes not parting from the scene. 

_Him_ , Will thinks, almost laughing out loud when his mind supplies the fact that  _he_  served Will a fucking stuffed heart two short nights before. The roil in his stomach is enough to stifle his impending laughter, however, having a little more trouble processing what he ate now that he is at another crime scene—a trip to the market as far as Doctor Lecter is concerned, he assumes. 

“It’s him,” Chilton pipes up, still looking like a grouchy old cat who accidentally got wet paws. 

“You haven’t moved from that spot,” Zeller calls out, causing himself and Price to erupt into giggles as they clamor through the muddy field when he adds, “How the hell would you know, Fred?” 

Chilton huffs and places his hands on his hips. He looks absolutely absurd. “He’s widening his dumping grounds,” he replies, although no one is really listening, especially not Will who is feeling increasingly nervous about what he’s going to be forced to see, but the ridiculousness of that statement breaks through his haze. 

“He has  _no_ reason to do that,” Will says, unaware that he has raised his voice, “He wants his art to be seen.  _Appreciated_. He—” 

“Will,” Jack interrupts, his gruff voice startling Will enough to realize that his tone was becoming nearly hysterical, earning the gazes of nearly everyone on the scene. 

“Dude,” Beverly says, her dark eyes wide, “Next time,  _maybe_  don’t refer to his murders as art, okay?” 

Will shakes his head, irrationally angry. His head throbs, and he just wants to go home. “That’s what they are,” he argues weakly, and Jack rolls his eyes. 

“Sometimes it’s best not to share  _all_  your thoughts out loud,” he admonishes, and Will blanches; remembers similar harsh conversations from his father when he was a boy. A boy born without the ability to easily interact socially, and who most often earned dirty looks every time he opened his mouth. Will is still staring at him, trying to cool his sudden hatred, when Jack clears his throat and announces loudly, “I need everybody out! Come on, move it!” 

Like ants whose home has just been disturbed, Will watches blankly as the techs and agents on the scene immediately scatter, all heading past where he and Jack stand, and none of them hiding the looks of curiosity they cast in Will’s direction. He hunches his shoulders and ducks his head, wishing he could simply vanish into the mud.  

“Are you alright, Will?” Jack asks once they are alone again. He’s using that same voice that usually comes along with calling him ‘son’, and Will braces himself, expecting the worst. “You don’t look well. And you didn’t check in with me,  _or_  go to any of your classes, for the last half of the week,” he says, beginning to reach out to touch Will’s shoulder but seeming to think better of it, dropping his hand back to his side. Will almost laughs, considering he was drugged and being held at the Chesapeake Ripper’s house, until he wasn’t being held anymore and knowingly ate someone’s fucking  _heart_  with the man himself. “Is this too much for you?” Jack asks, as gently as the gruff man is able. 

Will manages to raise his eyes to the level of the man’s nose. He means to shake his head, he really does, but the back and forth motion turns on its own into the up and down of a nod. A cry for help, if aimed at anyone besides Jack, who is nothing if not self-serving. As it stands, the man huffs a sigh and lowers himself to catch Will’s aimless gaze. “I need you to look, Will,” he tells him, and Will manages a shaky intake of breath, before he nods slowly, “You look, tell me what you see, and we’ll get you back to your classrooms.” 

Will looks away, accidentally catches the eyes watching him from further up the field where everyone stands by their vehicles, displaced at the moment from doing their jobs. The only face Will sees that holds anything but annoyance belongs to Beverly Katz, who is watching himself and Jack from afar with worry etched deep in her features. 

Will sighs, runs a hand over his face, flinching as his fingers graze the stitches on his forehead again, hidden as they are from Jack by a few unruly curls. “I’ll look,” he says softly, closing his eyes for a moment, sure that he’s never felt so exhausted in his entire life, “But I’m not going to see the Ripper. Not today, sir.” 

x


	9. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have an unexpected meeting.

 

Admittedly, it is perhaps unusual for Hannibal to feel tired by the end of the day, especially considering most of his days hardly ‘end’ at the culmination of his final appointment. But this particular evening seems to have dragged excessively, thanks in part to an especially tiresome group of boring patients that droned on and on. Only a very insignificant sliver of his mind had been occupied by their tedious problems. The rest had been mulling over the ins and outs of a brain he found much more interesting to take apart. 

He had let the boy leave his home intact, although every instinct carved from decades of experience in self preservation had screamed at him to rend the boy with the obscene mouth and fascinating mind into what undoubtedly would be one of his most ambrosial dishes to date. The decision he had come to was a dangerous one, but his mind was at war; torn between the extraordinary sensation of another knowing his best kept secret and his instinctual need to keep his extracurricular activities hidden from the world. A backup plan was already beginning to form in his mind, should the boy—who is working with the FBI, no less—choose to take this opportunity for granted. Hannibal is well aware of the celebrity the boy would enjoy, if he were the one to finally land the infamous Chesapeake Ripper. But yet something—dare he allow himself to name it  _hope—_ stayed Hannibal’s hand, and allowed the boy to walk away unharmed, despite possessing knowledge that no other on earth has lived more than a few moments aware of. It could easily be his downfall, he knows, and yet his curiosity is enough to allow this situation to play out simply to see what happens. 

For now, anyway. 

He makes a few final notes in his calendar and checks his appointments for the next day, and almost allows himself a sigh, already dreading listening to the tedious inner thoughts of irksome and dull minds. He places his datebook in it’s proper home, squared to perfection an inch from the corner of his desk, before frowning down at the sketch he had been absently working on between patients. A rendition of sorts, with the thought of Caravaggio’s  _David With The Head of Goliath_ ; although there is a sweet curve to David’s lips and a sharper line to his jaw, and the beginnings of a haunting gaze that he cannot deny. 

Closing his sketchbook and placing it—certainly not  _hiding it,_ he assures himself—in a desk drawer, he stands, buttoning his suit jacket, before crossing the room to the coat rack by the door. He takes his time donning his winter coat, scarf, and gloves, unnecessarily straightening the double Windsor knot of his tie before shutting off the main lighting of his vast office, then opening the door. 

As soon as he does, he smells it. Warmth, both sweet and spicy, explodes through his senses like a whiff from the finest of wines. Following on the heels of that lovely scent is the smell of sweat and blood, a fresh and coppery bouquet that balances out the bitterness of fear that assaults his senses. 

He steps fully into the waiting room, watching with interested eyes the slight frame that is slowly becoming something familiar. The boy stands with his back to Hannibal, his shoulders heaving, the back of his neck damp despite still wearing a knitted cap pulled down over his ears. 

Hannibal doesn’t speak until he notices the blood slipping down thin, elegant fingers, leaving drops of red that have spread out into a small, dark pool on his fine wooden floor. “Hello, Will,” he hears himself say in a normal, even voice despite the boy’s appearance in his office late and unannounced and bleeding freely. His fair brow furrows slightly when the boy doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to greet him, a hint of concern in his voice despite the overall sternness as he calls in a louder, more authoritative tone, “ _William_.” 

The younger man visibly jolts at the sound of his voice, and whirls around with wide eyes. Hannibal’s own gaze narrows imperceptibly as he takes the boy in; from the blank look on his face that’s beginning to slowly melt into confusion, to the deep split in his lower lip and the bruises beginning to darken underneath his eye and along his jaw. 

“Doctor Lecter?” Will asks, blinking his eyes rapidly, seemingly unaware of the blood coating his thin, long-sleeved shirt and still dripping onto the floor. 

Hannibal takes a step closer, despite the way the boy bristles in a way that he himself knows all too well. “What has happened, Will?” Hannibal asks, his tone clipped and professional. 

“I don’t...” Will starts, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t...I can’t—” 

“It hardly matters,” Hannibal interjects, his voice cutting easily across Will’s continued stumbling words, and he wastes no time in crossing the room, unflinching even as the boy shrinks back away from him. For once, Hannibal notes, he looks his age; small and scared, eyes wide and breathtaking as he trembles in the older man’s close proximity. “Come,” Hannibal instructs, taking Will by the elbow of the side of his body not currently bleeding all over his pristine floor, leading as the boy mutely follows his direction, “You need medical attention.” 

Will is silent as Hannibal brings him into the office, pausing momentarily to lock the door behind them, watching with blank eyes as the man removes his scarf, coat, and gloves with quick precision. Placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, he guides him into the chair near his desk, feeling Will’s eyes follow him as he crosses the room to procure his medical bag. When he returns, he kneels in front of the boy without much thought, his hands clinically precise as his tugs off his cap and tosses it away, then lifting Will’s chin with his fingers to examine his face, dark eyes flitting over the cut lower lip and the bruises coloring his pale skin darker, his own lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Remove this, please,” he says once he turns his attention to the hidden wound that continues to soak blood through his shirt, much too thin for the weather. Will, it would seem, is beginning to go into shock, his lips moving as if trying to form words but no sound threatens to escape. “ _Will_ ,” Hannibal says, raising his voice enough to make the boy’s blue eyes snap to his, “Stay with me.” 

“Where else would I go?” Will whispers softly, a quiet echo of what must have been his inner thoughts to bring him to Hannibal’s office in the first place. 

Growing tired of waiting on the younger man to comply, Hannibal fishes out a pair of shears from within his bag before he sets to work, pressing Will gently back into the chair before he places the blades at the center of the blood-soaked shirt’s lower hem. In quick, practiced movements, he cuts the garment straight up the middle, allowing himself the briefest moment to enjoy the glint of sharp metal as it reaches the boy’s throat.  

“Tell me what happened, Will,” he says, a statement of fact and not a request that Will can’t seem to ignore, even in his current state. The boy shivers as Hannibal gently peels away the tattered remains of his shirt, only then noticing the slash in it that was formerly hidden by the younger man’s arm. 

“I was...at a crime scene,” Will says, his voice soft and distant as Hannibal grips his arm and places his elbow on the arm of the chair, to allow himself more room to discover the source of the blood that coats the boy’s lovely pale skin an even lovelier shade of red in the dim light of his office. 

“This did not happen to you at a crime scene,” he replies, his voice low as he discovers the deep wound between his fifth and sixth rib on his left side. He reaches into his bag, coming back with gauze to clean away some of the blood so he can get a better look, his nostrils flaring as the sweet scent of the boy’s essence fills his senses. Blood that was meant to be  _his_  to spill, his uncharacteristic dawdling allowing some other this chance.  

He suddenly desires to crush and rend this boy with his hands so strongly that he’s forced to turn away, reaching into his bag for a pair of fresh syringes and needles, making quick work of removing their plastic wrappers. He takes a steady breath to calm his irritation, both with himself and at Will Graham who causes him to make such atypical decisions, before setting about filling one syringe with analgesic, the other with a sedative. He administers the latter first, watching as Will slackens ever so slightly into his seat, his obscenely long eyelashes fluttering before remaining closed. They fly open again in pain when the needle pierces the skin around his wound with a soft cry of pain, although the numbing agent quickly goes to work, and Hannibal surprises them both by gently petting the boy’s unharmed skin until he calms once more. 

Hannibal had imagined this beautiful pale flesh beneath his fingers in many ways, ranging from leaving bruises on the boy’s hips as he fucked him, warm and alive, to caressing unnecessarily as he rendered his cold body into smaller parts for easier storage and consumption. When he had imagined his fingers brushing over his bloodstained skin like this, however—and he had, more often than he would care to admit—it was never over blood spilled by another. 

Hannibal feels his lip curl into a snarl in a brief moment of pure, unchecked rage. He quickly reins it in and deletes the memory from his mind completely, not wishing to revisit a feeling so banal as  _jealousy_ ever again.  

Instead, he forces his attention back to the boy, who he abruptly realizes has begun to speak. 

“Agent Crawford made me look,” he whispers, his head lolling against the back of the chair, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in pain as Hannibal gently prods at the wound, attempting to discern how deep it is.  

“Made you look at what, Will?” he asks, attempting to keep the boy focused. 

“A scene,” he says softly, words slurring ever so slightly, “He thought...he thought it might have been one of yours. But it wasn’t, it...” He trails off, swallowing thickly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips and wincing in pain as it touches the sluggishly bleeding cut there. “It could have been,” he murmurs, his words seeming to leave him in an absent way, “It looked like you, but it didn’t  _feel_  like you.” 

Hannibal pauses in his examination to glance up at Will, whose eyes are still closed and cannot see the effect of his words on the older man. He shakes himself forcefully, glancing down at his gloved hands as he explores the wound as gently as possible, pulling a beautiful sound of pain from the boy’s lips before he manages to ask, “What did you see?” 

Will’s eyes remain closed, but his expression changes, morphing from pain to anger as he hisses out, “ _Me_.”  

“How so?” Hannibal asks softly, reaching back into his bag to procure what is needed to stitch the boy back together, after determining the depth of the wound to be shallow enough to safely do so. His eyes continually dart up to the boy’s face, watching as his bruises continue to darken before his eyes, waiting with unfaltering patience until he is ready to speak. 

“He’s killing girls,” Will manages to whisper, his voice shaking, although Hannibal isn’t sure if it’s from pain or from the near-rage he feels radiating from the younger man. “Six are missing so far. Underage prostitutes. They— _ow_ ,” he moans at the first pierce of Hannibal’s curved needle through his ragged flesh, “They all look the same. Dark hair, blue eyes. She was...she was the first body. She was  _beautiful_.” 

Hannibal’s curiosity is certainly piqued, and he concentrates on that, pointedly ignoring the roil of sickness deep in his belly. He wets his lips, lowering to watch his fingers moving almost automatically to stitch this boy up for the second time in as many days, leaving a neat row of black lines behind that stand out in stark contrast against the pale skin and red blood. “Were they...abused?” he asks softly, keeping his voice steady only from decades of practice. 

Will shakes his head from side to side, his eyes flying open to glare down at Hannibal with fire in his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he grinds out, his breath picking up as he goes on, “She was laid out in a meadow, surrounded by winter wildflowers. She was holding a little bouquet against her chest, wearing a white dress, he fucking closed her  _eyes_. He was  _honoring_  her. He  _wanted_  her to be found.” A pause, before he whispers, “I made a mistake. A miscalculation. I had to make it right.” 

Hannibal’s hand stills, and he glances up to find the boy’s eyes oddly glazed over again. “What mistake did you make, Will?” he asks softly. 

Will shakes his head, his expression pained, as if he doesn’t know the answer to the older man’s question. “I...I wanted to make things nice for her,” he replies in barely even a whisper, “I shouldn’t have taken her. I couldn’t...” 

Hannibal studies him for a moment longer as he trails off, before he reaches up to touch Will’s bruised jaw gently, watching as the boy slowly comes back from wherever he had wandered to. “Will,” he murmurs, watching him blink in confusion, and Hannibal is left with the distinct realization that the boy had slipped into the mind of yet another murderer. 

Will seems to realize soon thereafter, his mind moving sluggishly thanks to the drugs Hannibal administered, and he can’t help but wonder at his luck once again that a mind such as this one has stumbled into his clutches, sure that he is the only one who could appreciate such a gift. He is struck, once more, with his desperate desire to tear into him and  _consume_ , to taste the boy’s inner workings on his tongue. 

The younger man returns Hannibal’s gaze, half-lidded, tired, but even still sharper than any Hannibal has ever experienced. His own gaze drops when Will wets his lips again, before slowly returning back to the boy’s eyes, feeling a disturbance in the deep, dark well of his mind; memories that he has kept buried beneath the surface for so long that he—the man who fears nothing, not pain, not death, not capture—feels a pang of distress at his inner stirrings.  

Silence falls between them as Hannibal returns to his work, quickly finishing the neat row of stitches and snipping the thread before going through several antiseptic wipes to clean the wound a second time. Blood has dried against Will’s skin where it spilled in rivulets from his side, and he leaves it for now, taking a steadying breath before glancing up at the boy who is watching him intently. 

As gently as he’s able, he reaches up to place his hand around the back of Will’s neck, pulling him away from the back of his seat so that he can gingerly ease what’s left of his shirt down his arms—skinny in youth, he notices, but still toned, sharply honed muscles twitching beneath porcelain skin as he aimlessly attempts to help the man undress him. Although he aimed to do so from a clinical standpoint, knowing that the soaked-through material will only cause Will’s body temperature to lower, he can’t help but take the opportunity to skim his fingertips over the pale, unmarred skin as he helps the boy, now shirtless, settle back into the chair. 

His hand still cups the back of his neck, and Will meets his eyes with what could almost be mistaken for a small smile, both of them no doubt remembering how the fading bruises circling the column of his throat originated in this very office. Hannibal spreads his fingers wide, allowing them to touch the damp curls at his nape, as his thumb presses on the underside of the younger man’s chin to gently lift it, allowing him a better view of the signs of violence inflicted there.  

His thumb brushes with surprising gentleness over the fresh bruises that color his skin, trying his best to ignore the rage that brews inside of him at the sight of another’s marks upon the boy, even if he has not yet supplied Hannibal with the facts behind them. His eyes slowly track up to meet Will’s eyes, questioning, before lowering once again to watch as his thumb ghosts over his split lip, not flinching as Hannibal presses against it, watching raptly as fresh blood wells up from the wound, staining the pad of his thumb bright red. 

Hannibal wets his own lips, his eyes blown black with the sudden desire that courses through him, raising his gaze to meet the younger man’s blue eyes that are staring just as intently. “How did this occur, William?” he asks softly, his thumb still lingering against the boy’s lower lip, absently tracing the soft ridge there. 

Will swallows, audible in the silence of the office. “I was... _irritated,_ when I left the scene,” he says simply, the movement of his mouth around the words causing his lips to brush against Hannibal’s thumb. With great effort, he manages to lower his hand, although with nowhere else to go it lands on the boy’s denim-covered knee.  

They both lower their gazes simultaneously to look, and then rise once again, honeyed crimson meeting ocean blue as Hannibal remains where he is, on his knees in front of the boy nearly thirty years his junior, somehow managing to look fragile and fierce, breakable and yet resilient. “I killed two men,” he answers, his voice so soft and young, the lazy curve of his smile all small, sharp teeth dripping with poison. “They wanted to fuck me together, and so I let them,” he murmurs, his voice slurring slightly as he arches his back slowly against the chair, “I let them hurt me, because I knew they wanted to, knew they wanted me dead; although they had no intention of laying me out in a pretty field, surrounded by flowers like  _her_. I even let them think they had the upper hand when I started to fight back. And then I slit both of their fucking throats for the favor.” 

All Hannibal can do is stare. 

When it becomes clear to Will that the older man won’t—or as Hannibal is all to well aware of,  _can’t—_ reply, he sighs, his fingertips just barely brushing over Hannibal’s own, tightened nearly to bruising over his knee. “Will you take me home, Doctor Lecter?” he asks, sounding his young age, the drugs loosening his tongue, “I need a shower. And I can’t very well walk home looking like this.” 

Hannibal is happy enough to take the opportunity to let his eyes roam over the boy once more, the blood dried on his skin that is not all his own. He nods, before gracefully rising to his feet, extending a hand to the boy and smirking as he doesn’t hesitate to place his own in the older man’s palm. Gently, he helps him to stand, before crossing the room to fetch his coat, returning and draping it around slender shoulders. The blood will no doubt stain, both his own and his victims, but Hannibal wouldn’t dare deny the boy such a trophy. 

“I will take you to  _my_  home,” he finally answers, his voice rougher than he means for it to be as he watches Will thread his arms through the sleeves of the coat, amused at the way it seems to hang off his slight frame. “I cannot allow you to spend the night alone,” he says, in what he hopes is a clinical tone, stepping forward to brush the boy’s fumbling fingers out of the way and buttoning the coat himself as he adds, “It would be remiss of me, considering that you have been sedated, and this way I can administer something for the pain and monitor you overnight.” 

Will smirks lazily, eyelids drooping, his lips pulling tight and making fresh blood well once again from the cut on his lip. This time, Hannibal does what he so desired to do before, reaching up to swipe at it with his thumb, before bringing it to his mouth, allowing himself the small taste. “I would hate for you to be  _remiss_ ,” Will breathes out as he watches, his eyes caught in a struggle between widening at the sight and heavy lids from the drugs in his system. His head tilts back so that he can get a better look, his smirk widening as he whispers, “Maybe you should stop drugging me all the time, Doctor Lecter.” 

Hannibal blinks, too lost there for a moment in the taste of the boy’s blood as it explodes over his palette—sweeter than even the finest deserts he whips up in his kitchen. It takes him a moment to register the teasing tone in the boy’s voice, and he feels a small smile curving his own lips as he replies, “Perhaps you should stop stumbling into my office unannounced and requiring sedation, William.” 

The boy’s eyes, even dulled by said sedation, seem to sparkle with mirth in the soft light of the office. “I don’t think I will,” he answers, smiling a little wider. He turns, stumbling towards the door, completely relaxed by the medication enough to turn halfway there and look up at Hannibal once more. “Are you going to cook me dinner, Doctor Lecter?” he asks, his head tilted ever so slightly, made all the more beautiful by the wounds he was dealt earlier in the evening. 

Hannibal sighs, at least pretending to be put out. “Yes, Will,” he answers drolly as he places his hand in the center of his back over his own coat, prodding the slightly loopy boy towards the door. 

“Good,” Will replies, frowning as Hannibal knocks his hand away before he can leave his bloody prints on the shining brass doorknob. Will steps through, and waits patiently for Hannibal to follow, shutting the door and locking it behind him. The boy’s eyes are bright when Hannibal meets them, and he raises his brow in a silent request for him to speak. 

He does. “I think we need to make a quick stop on the way, don’t you?” he asks lightly. 

Hannibal immediately understands Will’s meaning, and he is nothing short of delighted. 

“Yes, dear Will, I do,” he answers; a rare, genuine smile curving his features only when the boy turns away, drunkenly tripping over his own feet as he heads for the door, Hannibal’s coat pulled tightly around his small shoulders against the biting cold. 

x


	10. When Worlds Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chilton is an asshole.

Will stumbles from class to class the following day in a haze, sucking his split lower lip into his mouth to hide it any time someone looks too closely, which happens far too often for his liking. He listens to his lectures, even scribbles down some notes, but his mind keeps wandering back to the evening before, doing his best to piece together the bits and pieces that seem to blur together until every tattered memory is stained with death and blood.

Doctor Lecter had dropped him off earlier that morning, a safe distance away from any prying eyes at the academy, the dark Bentley purring away from the curb Will was standing on without a single word exchanged between them. The psychiatrist’s demeanor had somehow managed to be more aloof than usual when Will had found him in the kitchen that morning, looking completely put together already as he poured them both a cup of coffee, while Will remained—even now—rumpled from sleep and bleary-eyed.

Neither of them had spoke of the night before, and for Will’s part, it was because he questioned the sequence of events that he has yet to fully piece together. All day long, over the droning of his instructors, he struggles to remember everything that happened from the time Agent Katz had come to fetch him, and that morning that found him standing on a curb in the cold, in a soft sweater that was not his, watching as the Chesapeake Ripper drove away.

He remembers flashes of the crime scene, clinical as it was with little to no gore to be seen, and remembers finding himself at a scene of his own making; standing over two bodies sprawled on the floor with slit throats and dead eyes, blood warm and sticky against his skin. His recollection becomes even more vague as the night went on; a passing memory of confusion when he found himself in a familiar waiting room, the hunger in Doctor Lecter’s eyes as he licked blood from his thumb, the sight of the older man returning from a hotel room with a small cooler tucked to his side as Will waited in the car. More drugs, a delicious dinner, almost completely devoid of small talk, and—Will could swear—being all but tucked into an obscenely comfortable bed before immediately falling asleep.

And now he’s here, back at the academy, as if none of it actually happened. If it wasn’t for the searing pain in his side with every intake and exhale of breath that brings about vivid reminders of being stabbed by men desperate to bring pain for perverse pleasure, and the tug of neat black stitches when he moves, he might would be able to convince himself he imagined it all.

His class ends, and he gathers up his things, shifting his bag to the side _not_ stitched back together as he hefts it over his shoulder and shuffles from the room. He stares down at his feet as he walks, mind still retracing steps from the day before, and because of his inattention makes a sound of surprise as he walks straight into someone, unforgiving and unmoving as a brick wall.

“Graham,” Jack says, one gigantic hand landing on his shoulder and squeezing until Will winces and raises his eyes to the agent’s face.

“Crawford,” he replies, not at all kindly, since at the moment he’s realizing that Jack is the last person he wants to see.

Jack’s brow furrows, his dark eyes a storm of irritation. “I’ve been calling you since you left the scene yesterday, Will,” he says, and Will looks at him blandly, truly not in the mood. “Where the hell have you been?” he asks, lowering his head to actually _look_ at Will, noticing the visible scrapes and bruises against his pale skin. “What happened to you, son?” he asks, his other hand landing on Will’s other shoulder, giving him a firm shake.

“It’s nothing,” Will replies tersely, managing to twist his way out from under the older man’s hands. He takes a step back to put some much-needed space between them, all too aware of the eyes in the room that are trained on them.

It would seem that Jack then notices their audience, and he clears his throat, turning his sharp gaze on the trainees who have stopped to stare curiously before bellowing, “Do you not have somewhere to _be_?”

Immediately, the room erupts in shuffling papers and feet as everyone jumps into action to clear the room. Will tries to slip away into the tide of bodies, only to be caught by his arm by Jack, forced to remain in place.

“I need you to come with me,” he tells the younger man, his stern voice giving Will no room to argue about his need to go back to his dorm and study, to go grab a late lunch, to do _anything_ besides continue placing himself under this man’s watchful eye. With no other choice in the matter, he sighs inwardly and nods and allows Jack to guide him from the room out into the hallway.

Thankfully, Jack finally releases him, allowing him to walk to the side and slightly behind the seasoned agent without the discomfort of his touch. Even more thankfully, Jack doesn’t deem it necessary to speak until they are alone in the elevator, no doubt heading down to the lab.

“I’m worried about you, Will,” Jack says, and it’s all he can do not to roll his eyes and snort, since the poor man truly has no fucking _idea_. “You weren’t yourself at the scene yesterday,” he states, dark eyes unrelentingly trained on Will, who instead studies the lights on the elevator’s control panel as they flicker, indicating their slow descent.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Will mumbles, lowering his eyes to the toes of his boots, reaching up to press his fingers against his glasses to move them higher up his nose out of habit before he realizes with a start he hasn’t seen them since that first night in Doctor Lecter’s office.

He isn’t allowed much time to think about this fact, or that he hadn’t noticed until nearly a week later, thanks to the elevator chiming as the door opens. He and Jack file out as several lab techs Will doesn’t recognize shoulder past them to enter, talking animatedly amongst themselves until they fall silent with a single look from Jack. He thankfully waits until the doors shut behind them to speak again, saving Will the embarrassment of earning even more strange looks from the people working on the basement floor as he leads Will not to the lab, but a small room beside of it.

“It was more than that, and we _both_ know it,” Jack says, stopping in front of the door to look at the younger man. “You were _terrified_ , Graham,” he informs him, and Will swallows, barely remembering anything besides the corpse of the girl he saw there, “And I want to know _why_.”

A hundred different lies bubble up to Will’s lips in an instant as he watches Jack open the door, before ushering him inside. The room is stark and blank, but for the wide window overlooking the lab where Will sees Katz arguing good-naturedly with Price and Zeller, a small table with four chairs, one of which is occupied. “What is _he_ doing here?” Will asks, his eyes narrowing at the man who sits there with his hands folded on the tabletop.

“A pleasure to see you, as well, Mister Graham,” Fredrick Chilton drawls, looking positively delighted as his eyes drink the younger man in, causing Will to want desperately to squirm under his gaze.

“Sit,” Jack commands, following up with landing a hand on Will’s shoulder and unceremoniously shoving him down into the seat across from the psychiatrist. Will’s glare flickers between them both, feeling dread laced with anger beginning to well up inside of him as he realizes he has a sneaking suspicion about what is going on. Jack rounds the table before dropping into the seat beside Chilton, who has brought a leather-bound notebook from his briefcase at his feet to rest on the table in front of him, an expensive-looking fountain pen clutched between his fingers as he stares at Will with unnervingly beady eyes.

“I need to know what happened yesterday, Will,” Jack reiterates, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Nothing _happened_ ,” Will snaps, although he is helpless as his mind wanders back to the blank spaces that pepper his memories of the day before. “I told you, I wasn’t feeling well,” he repeats, slowing his words in case the agent misheard him the first time, “I wasn’t feeling well, and seeing a dead body didn’t help. I just wanted to go _home_.”

“And you return to us today with a split lip and bruises,” Chilton points out, and Will glares as at Jack, refusing to look at the man, even as he hears the scratching of the pen’s tip against paper.

Will only just stops himself from reaching up to run his thumb over his lower lip, over the small slit healing over there, feeling the ghost of another touching it and dark, hungry eyes even now. “It’s none of your business what I do outside of here,” Will shoots back, setting his jaw angrily at the intrusion into his private life.

“The hell it isn’t,” Jack grinds out, leaning forward on his elbows to glare right back at Will. “I pulled you out of your classrooms, Graham,” he says, searching Will’s eyes even as the young man refuses to meet his gaze, “I need to know this isn’t too much for you. I need to know I’m not going to _break_ you before you even have a chance to get started.”

Will leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, his palm resting protectively over the line of stitches in his side. “Do you know anyone who does what I do whole, better than I do broken?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow in challenge, despite the fact that the rational part of his brain tells him to let this go, to allow Jack to _think_ he’s broken, so he can go back to class and to his hunts without being bothered.

Chilton does some more scribbling, and it’s all Will can do not to knock the pen out of his hand and across the room. “I do not,” Jack agrees, leveling Will with a hard gaze, “And therefore I can’t afford to lose you, before I’ve had a chance to _use_ you.”

His words seem to ring in the air for a moment after they’re spoken, and Will isn’t exactly surprised when Jack doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. From everything he knows about the man, it comes as no shock that he would sacrifice Will’s sanity in order to catch the killers he searches for.

If only he knew who sat across from him now.

Will swallows, lowering his head for a moment and closing his eyes so he can rub them with his fingers. “It’s not easy for me to look, Agent Crawford,” he says carefully after a moment, his eyes still downcast as his hand drops away, “I do more than look. I can _feel_ these killers.” A pause, speaking carefully before he raises his gaze, “I get inside their heads. Therefore I’m not going to _be_ _myself_ at these crime scenes. Not being me is literally what you’re asking me to do.”

His gaze flickers over to Chilton momentarily during the ensuing silence, who Will finds to be watching him intently, the nub of his pen frozen against the pad of paper, leaching out ink in a growing circle as he stares intently. Will can feel his curiosity, his excitement, and knows that all he sees before him is a lab rat to play with, to experiment on. To one day no doubt lock behind bars at his hospital so that no one can peer into Will’s mind but his.

His own personal _playground_.

“Pure empathy,” Chilton muses out loud, his eyes sparkling in wonder as he adds in a reverent whisper, “How positively _delightful_.”

Suddenly, Will stiffens, turning his head to glare directly at Jack. “What is he doing here?” he asks again, his voice harsh with a sudden surge of anger and panic as he rises to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process as he hisses, “What the _fuck_ is Chilton doing here, Agent Crawford? Is he—are you _psychoanalyzing_ me?”

Chilton smirks, and it’s a cruel, prideful twist of his lips. “Jack is merely keeping your best interests at heart, Mister Graham,” he drawls, still grinning, “What you do is decidedly difficult on you, on your psyche, and we have come to the agreement that you need a support system in place.”

Will scoffs, backing away from the table. “And _you_ presume that you’ll be my support system?” he asks with a haughty but brittle laugh. He shakes his head, reaching up to run a hand fitfully through his hair, watched the whole time by two pairs of maddeningly calm eyes. “Therapy doesn’t work on me,” he declares weakly to Jack, choosing to ignore Chilton for a moment.

“If therapy doesn’t work on you, it’s because you won’t _let_ it work for you,” Chilton replies easily, and Will has a very realistic vision of killing him right here in front of the head of the FBI’s behavioral sciences unit, consequences be damned.

“Stop it,” Will grinds out between clenched teeth, “Stop psychoanalyzing me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed, _trust me_.”

“Will,” Jack barks out in warning, but the young man shakes his head almost frantically from side to side.

“No,” he says, straightening his shoulders as he forces his gaze to Jack, “This is bullshit. You want me to look, to see, to help you catch these killers at my own expense... _fine_. I’ll do it. But I won’t do it with the likes of Fredrick Chilton fumbling around in my head.”

Chilton bristles, rising from his seat. “ _Excuse_ me?” he says, his voice high pitched, and Jack’s booming voice easily cuts over him.

“ _Will_ ,” he repeats, this time loudly enough to startle his attention away from the so-called doctor, who his sought-after imagination is more than happy to supply him with plenty of visions that end with him dripping with the man’s blood. Jack is on his feet now, rounding the desk, looming over Will as he speaks. “Do you want to help us catch these killers or not?” he asks, staring down at the younger man.

Will opens his mouth, shuts it, gives his question the contemplation it deserves now that he is hidden from Chilton’s probing gaze, thanks to the solid wall of Jack’s body. He thinks of himself, his own blood-stained hands. He thinks of a decadent dinner of stuffed heart, fed to him by the man who he only just remembers tucking him into bed the night before like a beloved child.

Then he thinks of the girl in the field, turns his head enough to see what must be her body laid out on one of the cold steel tables in the lab, covered with a clean white sheet. Remembers seeing her in the field the day before, in her white dress and with her flowers, remembers seeing himself in her place; a thought that drove him directly into madness.

“Yes,” he hears himself whispering quietly, his eyes lowering to the floor, a lump in his throat.

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment, and then sighs. Once again, a large hand clamps on Will’s shoulder, and he shudders at the contact that couldn’t come at a worse time. “I can’t ask you to look alone, Will,” the older man says, his tone gentle—for him anyway—enough to surprise Will into relaxing ever so slightly. “I saw what the scene did to you yesterday,” he goes on, “Now, I’m not going to pretend to understand it...but I do know you need someone to help you sort everything out, to put everything back in its proper place. This is a lot, I know…I know I’m asking a lot, Will, but Doctor Chilton—”

“I already have a psychiatrist,” Will hears himself saying, his eyes widening in shock at himself as he raises his gaze to Crawford. The man’s own eyebrows are arched high in surprise, and Will desperately wishes he could put the words back where they came from, knows that even Chilton fumbling around in his head won’t compare to what he’s sure will be Doctor Lecter’s—the fucking _Chesapeake Ripper’s—_ wrath.

“Jack,” Chilton all but squeaks, rounding the table with his pen and pad clutched in hand, “I can assure you whoever the boy is seeing is not more highly qualified than myself. _Whoever it is—_ ”

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” Will interrupts, not bothering to hide his disdain, “Is _more_ than qualified to deal with me, I’m sure.” He can’t believe the words are leaving his mouth even as he says them, but despite what the consequences may be, the thought of _two_ psychiatrists with their fingers delving into Will’s brain is simply too much to bear.

“How—you—” Chilton stutters, stumbling over his words, his eyes growing wide before they narrow suddenly, his lips pinching into a bitchy little frown. “You are a patient of _Hannibal’s_?”

“I...” Will begins, trailing off as thoughts of the night before filter through his head. Gentle fingers treating his wounds, the same fingers wound around a fresh glass of wine and gripping him to keep him upright on his walk up the stairs to sleep. “Yes,” he hears himself saying, an outright lie as much as it is a truth.

Will watches numbly as Jack and Chilton dissolve into a whispered but heated argument between themselves, ignoring Will for a moment, allowing him a moment to collect his thoughts. He very well may have just signed his own death warrant, he’s lucid enough to realize; speaking the name of the most sought-after serial killer in the area into the ears of the very people searching so fruitlessly for him.

“Fine,” Jack says at the end of their argument, leaving Chilton looking even more pissy than usual. “Call him, get him to come in,” he instructs Will, “Tell him he can bill us for a consultation. I need him here with you while we go over this case this afternoon, am I clear?”

Will swallows thickly, glancing at Chilton momentarily, wondering just what in the fuck he has done. In the end, he nods slowly, reaching for his bag to dig out his phone, wondering if this is how his own victims feel when they know their demise is upon them.

In some ways, he admits to himself, it’s quite titillating. If nothing else, his day has become more interesting.

He wets his lips, excuses himself with a nod, and heads out into the hallway to dial.

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, my friends. Life got in the way :( I'll do better I promise.


	11. Out of the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet in the halls of the BAU.

The engine of his Bentley purrs softly as Hannibal maneuvers the vehicle with carefully controlled ease into an empty parking space, a safe distance—he certainly hopes—from the mangled and rusted excuses for transportation that he assumes belong to the students of the academy. He spots a familiar mop of dark brown curls over the rows of vehicles between where he currently sits and the curb in front of the Behavioral Sciences building, and smirks to himself as he sees it beginning to bob quickly in his direction.

By the time he steps out of his car and straightens the lapels of his hunter green suit, Will Graham barrels around the side of the car at a sprint, skidding to a stop a few feet away. Hannibal allows himself a moment to breathe in deeply the scent the boy carries with him; fear, first and foremost, and the underlying fevered sweetness he had become very aware of the night before.

“Doctor Lecter,” Will manages to get out as he wrings his hands and then abruptly stops, straightening and setting his jaw, “I’m not going to say I’m sorry, because I’m _not_.”

It’s all Hannibal can do not to chuckle, instead only letting a faint, fond smile curve his lips as he looks down at the boy whose curls are still wild from his restful night in his own home the night before, glancing off beautifully flushed cheeks. “Of course not,” Hannibal replies, secretly pleased that he wasn’t met with scores of apologies that he should truly expect, considering that the young man before him has brought the FBI to his door; or more literally, him to theirs. He could hear the fear in Will’s voice when he called, only hours after Hannibal had dropped him off, but he feels a streak of pride that when facing the man who know has even more reason to make him disappear than usual, the boy is nothing less than defiant.

Still, he can’t help but allow a layer of menace into his tone as he stares at Will, unblinking, asking him calmly, “Why have you called me here, William? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“What?” Will asks, blinking his wide eyes twice before they narrow, “You think I would turn you in?” He glances around them, making sure there are no students in earshot, before he hisses out, “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”

Hannibal’s own eyes narrow, glittering darkly in the bright midday sun, and before Will can react a hand lashes out to grip the younger man’s jaw tightly, letting his fingers sink deeply into the bruises there until Will makes a quiet sound of distress under his crushing grip. “Language,” he intones, his voice softer than it should be, considering he is currently inflicting pain. Just as abruptly he lets go, allowing his hand to drop back to his side, watching as Will raises his own hand not to rub away the pain but instead unconsciously settling his fingers where Hannibal’s were seconds before. “You are the one that came to _me_ covered in blood last night, dear William,” he says at length, once he pulls his eyes away from the boy’s slender fingers against the darkness of his bruised and stubbled jaw, “I am certain it is most unnecessary for me to remind you who currently holds the upper hand in this... _agreement_ between us.”

Will scoffs, quite unbothered by the thinly veiled threat. “You just did,” he replies with a roll of his eyes, his terrible attitude appealing more to Hannibal than it has any right to be. “Jack Crawford thinks I need a psychiatrist,” he explains finally, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly in defeat.

“I don’t disagree,” Hannibal responds with a smirk that causes Will to scowl, before they both turn at once, walking together towards the building. They walk for a long moment in silence, Will’s arms crossed protectively over his chest while Hannibal himself strides beside him in his polar opposite, until he smiles inwardly and adds, “Although I must say, I am most surprised that you have chosen for that to be me...considering how our original consultation ended.”

This surprises a laugh out of Will, enough that he nearly trips stepping up onto the curb, and the sound is nothing short of delightful on Hannibal’s ears, causing a small smile to bloom unbidden on his lips as he turns to meet the young man’s striking eyes. “You mean when you choked me unconscious on the floor of your office?” he asks with a playful grin, dragging his split lip between his teeth. Hannibal merely smiles serenely, and is rewarded with another quiet laugh as Will reaches for the door at the entrance of the BAU, adding quietly as he chivalrously holds it open for the older man, “Yeah, well, wait until you see who Crawford has in mind.”

This piques Hannibal’s interest, as well as causes a ripple of irritation that he keeps safely tucked away from his countenance at the thought of another sifting through the mind that has him so enraptured. He waits until Will passes through and lets the door close behind him, allowing the younger man to lead the way deep into the halls where the best minds in law enforcement are all working tirelessly to apprehend him.

The thought brings another pleased small smile to his face as Will leads him to the lab, the only sign of his growing amusement that he expresses outwardly. The amusement only grows when Will opens the door and leads him inside the morgue, where he is greeted with the face of the man he knows from various news stories to be Jack Crawford, standing beside an _extremely_ perturbed looking Fredrick Chilton.

“Agent Crawford,” he hears Will saying, his attention and words directed down at his shoes, “This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. My, uh...” He trails off, stealing a quick glance in the older man’s direction, before adding as if it physically pains him, “My _psychiatrist_.”

Hannibal is all too happy to step forward to shake the man’s hand, entertained beyond measure to meet the person he knows to be leading the charge in finding and apprehending the Chesapeake Ripper. “Agent Crawford,” he greets deferentially, bowing his head quickly over their clasped hands, before turning to the smaller man at his side that looks as though he may burst at the seams at any moment. “Ah, _Fredrick_ ,” he says cheerfully, a smile curving his lips, “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“I’m sure,” Chilton drawls, appearing pained by the inability to roll his eyes, lest he seem unprofessional. “I was most surprised to learn that Mister Graham here was one of your patients, Hannibal,” Fredrick grouses, allowing his eyes to wander to the younger man still standing at his elbow, much to his delight. “You always have had a taste for the rarefied, though, have you not?”

“I’m standing _right_ here,” Will shoots back, and there’s nothing Hannibal can do this time to hide his pleased smile from Fredrick, knowing that his statement hardly requires a response.

Just as quickly as he garnered Hannibal’s attention, he loses it, a fact that clearly makes Fredrick most unhappy as Hannibal turns his attention back to the agent in charge. “I must admit, Agent Crawford—” he starts, only to be interrupted.

“Jack, please,” the agent says, smiling as though he has bestowed a priceless gift.

“ _Jack_ ,” Hannibal repeats, his expression not changing despite the man’s rude interruption, “As I was saying, I must admit that I am most curious about my reason for being here.”

“They think I’m unstable,” Will supplies, blue eyes flashing up from the floor to lock gazes with Hannibal momentarily.

Fredrick barks out a laugh, a terrible sound that grates on Hannibal’s ears, causing him to appreciate the musical sound of young Will’s laughter all the more. “We _know_ you are unstable, Mister Graham,” he corrects, beaming as if he’s proud of his so very astute observation.

Hannibal smirks, before purring in Will’s direction, “I believe we all require a stabling presence from time to time, Fredrick. Will’s mind is most remarkable, and to my knowledge has not only maintained his academics as well as his work with the FBI, but also a _flourishing_ social life.” Will looks away at this, but Hannibal is pleased to find that their version of a private joke has brought the barest of smiles to the lovely curve of his lips, and his own amusement lilts his accented words as he adds, “I would hardly call that unstable. But if our Will requires a stabilizing presence, I would happily volunteer to be his paddle.”

“Great,” Jack decrees loudly, thankfully cutting off whatever argument Chilton was gearing up to make before it can begin, “We’ll get you on the payroll, Doctor Lecter. I believe it would be helpful if you were there for Will on these cases. To be his ‘paddle’, as you say.”

Hannibal notices the grimace settling on Will’s features, and he addresses the boy directly, although the agent and the doctor seem comfortable enough talking about him as if he isn’t there. “What you need, dear Will, is a way back from the dark places your mind takes you,” he says, catching the younger man’s eye, all while assuring himself that the hint of affection in his tone is purely fabricated and not at all genuine.

“As touching as this is,” Fredrick interrupts, looking between them, “I’m not sure that this is an entirely appropriate part of a doctor-patient relationship.” Hannibal gives him a droll look, one that is nearly matched in blitheness by Will’s own expression, and Chilton looks to Jack instead for support as he adds hurriedly, “Confidentiality requires that Hannibal only warns you if Mister Graham is planning on hurting someone. What you need, Jack, is someone with a _fresh_ relationship with Will, who can talk openly to you about his instability—”

“Good thing Doctor Lecter isn’t _officially_ my psychiatrist, then,” Will interrupts, his voice showing signs of how weary he has become of this conversation, and Hannibal smirks at him, proud that the boy has once again said just the right thing to steer the conversation towards a favorable end for them both.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Jack replies, and Hannibal realizes grimly that this man will do whatever it takes—at Will’s expense, no doubt—to use the boy’s gifts in his favor.

Will, it would seem, is already entirely aware of this fact. “Can we hurry up and get this over with?” he asks tiredly, reaching up to push his fingers through his hair, the soft curls bouncing once more down over his forehead; leaving Hannibal feeling a rush of desire when he sees the flash of the neat row of stitches at his temple that he both caused and healed.

Jack nods, before turning and stalking off, leaving Hannibal staring at Will and Fredrick staring at them both in outrage. Will shakes himself, meeting Hannibal’s eyes shyly, before moving to follow after Jack.

A few moments later, they are all gathered around one of the metal tables, Hannibal freshly introduced to the rest of the team—all of whom are eying both himself and Will in turn warily. The young woman—Beverly Katz—is the first to step forward, and he watches with interest as she reaches out to carefully tug away the sheet covering the body currently on display, leaving the corpse bare before them.

Hannibal can feel Will stiffen at his side at the sight of the victim, and immediately he can see exactly why the death of this particular girl has bothered the younger man to the extent that it has. Even lying there, immobile and frozen in death, she bares a striking resemblance to Will himself. Her dark hair is the same shade as his own, her features defined but soft, her skin a pale, milky white. Unlike Will, however, there is not a single mark to be found on her delicate body, but for a wound from pelvis to sternum that was carefully stitched back together and six identical punctures surrounding it.

“I found antler velvet in the wounds,” Beverly explains, pointing to the nearest one with a gloved finger. “And after _much_ discussion,” she says with a pointed look back at her two comrades, introduced to Hannibal as Jimmy Price and Bryan Zeller, who shrug in Beverly’s direction, “We’ve come to the conclusion that she _wasn’t_ gored by a deer or elk or something similar.”

Will nods his head, a terse expression on his lovely face. “Antler velvet has healing properties,” he says, his voice strangely soft as he stares down at the victim, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Okay, so, he was trying to heal her?” Jack says, clearly not believing it even as he says it, “He killed her and then he tried to _heal_ her? What kind of killer does that?”

“He’s _not—_ ” Will exclaims, before seeming to rein in the level of his voice with herculean effort. “This was a mistake. He was trying to undo what he had done,” he whispers at length. “The antler velvet was added after she was dead, after he... _opened_ her,” he says just as softly, and Hannibal forces himself to tear his eyes away from him, from the light sheen of sweat on his brow, from the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows roughly, and back to the dead girl laid out before them. He’s forced to blink away the image of Will lying on his own gleaming metal table in the basement below his home, with dead eyes and nearly translucent skin, ethereally beautiful under the clinical lights and the caress of Hannibal’s own hand moments before he bares down with a knife.

“He’ll have an antler room,” Will is saying when Hannibal comes back to himself, the boy’s voice melodic and soothing as he rasps out words in a tone that doesn’t seem to be entirely his own, “That’s where the punctures came from. He suspended her body on antlers...so that he could butcher her more easily.”

“Like a shrike,” Hannibal adds softly, garnering the attention of everyone but Will, who still stares down at the girl’s corpse with mourning in his eyes. “A type of bird,” he explains, wetting his lips, “Who impales its prey on thorns, alive, so that he can better devour them and even come back later to feed more.”

“She wasn’t butchered, though,” one of the other agents—Zeller, Hannibal remembers—replies, stepping forward to prod at the victim’s wound, “He cut her open, but he didn’t take anything out.”

“There was something wrong with the meat.”

Everybody, Hannibal included, swings their gaze to look at Will, who is looking more than a little green as he stares down at the victim. “How the hell did you know that?” Zeller asks, his brows furrowed in confusion, “She has liver cancer. Most likely she had no idea.”

“He’s eating them,” Will whispers, who has yet to tear his eyes away from the young girl’s face. “That’s why we haven’t found any more bodies...that’s why we found _this_ one where we did. He couldn’t honor her. He was _devastated,_ so he left her in that field for us to find. This was a waste, and he...”

Will blinks, only then realizing that everyone in the room is staring at him, all of which are looking at him with varying levels of worry, disgust, and wariness. All of which but Hannibal, who can’t help the way he’s watching the younger man, taken by the way he slips so effortlessly into and out of the mind of his killers. He wets his lips, drops his eyes, then adds softly, “There will be more, but we won’t find them.”

“We’ve just got to find him first, before he can take another girl,” Jack says, already lifting his phone to his ear. “Crawford here, yeah,” he says into the receiver, “We need increased police presence on the streets tonight. Keep an eye out on the street corners...specifically young females, ages sixteen to twenty, dark hair, light eyes.” There’s a pause, and the man’s brow furrows. “What?” he asks, and Hannibal can just hear the other person’s voice rattling off information through the tinny speaker. “Right. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Text me the address,” he says, and quickly hangs up the phone.

“What was that?” Beverly asks, pointing at Jack’s phone as he shoves it into his pocket.

“We’ve had another two bodies drop,” he explains, and when Will begins to protest, he flicks a finger towards the dead girl and cuts him off, “Not one of his. This one seems to be matching the Ripper.” His eyes dart from Will to Hannibal, before he adds empirically, “Doctor Lecter, I hope you won’t mind joining us. I’m sure Graham could use you on the scene.”

Hannibal lifts his chin and smiles at the agent, before turning his head to meet Will’s wide, beautiful eyes. There’s no hiding the amusement in his voice this time as he responds to Jack’s question, even if he wanted to hide it, which he decidedly does not.

“I am sure it will be _quite_ educational.”

x


End file.
